


life could be twice as nice (to share it with you)

by goingaftercacciato



Category: The Halcyon (TV)
Genre: (Canon) Lesbian Theresa, Adil Is Relentlessly Perfect and Charming, Adopted Children, Also...When I Say Slow Burn...I Really Mean Slow Burn, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And He's a Damn Good Father, Coming Out, Falling In Love, Forbidden Love, Friends Who Love and Support Their Friends, Friends to Lovers, Gay Awakening, M/M, Oblivious Toby, Primary Teacher Adil Joshi, Single Father Toby Hamilton, Slow Burn, There Will Be A Bit of Angst...Naturally, Toby Also Has Anxiety, Toby Is The Poster Boy of Repression, Toby's a Bit of A Mess But He's Trying His Best, You Know: The Standard Stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:27:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 92,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27329524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingaftercacciato/pseuds/goingaftercacciato
Summary: "Toby had sworn, when the twins were born, that he would be better than his own father. It had hardly been a high bar to step over, but he had promised himself, if nothing else, he would care for his children equally and make damn sure they always knew that they were loved and never let them feel as if his affection was a prize that had to be won. But lost as he is most days, he can’t help feeling that he may be just as bad as his father, only in a quieter way."Alternatively: Toby never thought he would have children, but now, at twenty-nine, he finds himself raising five-year-old twins that he loves more than anything in the world. But as much joy as his children bring to his life, sometimes he wishes he had someone to share it with...
Relationships: Adil Joshi & Betsey Day, Adil Joshi & Sonny Sullivan, Past Emma Garland/Freddie Hamilton, Sonny Sullivan/Betsey Day (Background), Theresa Buchanan/Original Female Character (Background), Toby Hamilton & Betsey Day, Toby Hamilton & Emma Garland, Toby Hamilton & Freddie Hamilton, Toby Hamilton & Joe O'Hara, Toby Hamilton & Sonny Sullivan, Toby Hamilton & Theresa Buchanan, Toby Hamilton/Adil Joshi
Comments: 63
Kudos: 14





	1. been crazy all day long and it's only monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, first things first, shoutout to [AstriferousSprite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstriferousSprite) and [ArtDeco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtDeco) for talking me into writing this AU. And a big thanks to everyone else in the Discord for helping me crowdsource all of the names and small details of this fic (and for letting me lift an entire OC).
> 
> Disclaimer: This is the first incomplete fic I've ever posted, and I have most of the general plot worked out, but I have no idea how long this is going to end up being. I'll try to keep the updates coming on a semi-regular basis, but I can't make any promises...
> 
> This first chapter is...Not much, sorry. Just a brief little intro to set up the premise really. And it hurts my heart to say this, but unfortunately, there will be no Adil until chapter three ( ~~if I make it that far because, to be honest, I have a feeling there will be zero interest in this, and if so, I may give up after this chapter~~ ).
> 
> Chapter title comes from "Mr. Mom" by Lonestar. (Cringe, yes, but I can't help it; I'm from the midwest, and sometimes my 'mid-2000s country' roots come out, okay.)

“Daaaaaaaaaad!”

Toby drops his head with a heavy sigh as the booming thud of little footsteps comes crashing down the hall. _So much for getting a bit of work done tonight_. With one last grimace at the terribly blank word document that was meant to have transformed into an assignment on the fundamentals of lambda calculus days ago, he closes his laptop and takes off his glasses. He hadn’t meant to leave them on, hardly needs them for staring at a screen that’s only a foot from his face, and now he can feel a small headache building behind his eyes. Setting the glasses safely aside, he rubs a thumb over the sore indentations they’ve left on the bridge of his nose and waits; a moment later, his bedroom door flies open.

“Oliver,” he says, turning in his chair. “We’ve talked about knocking first.”

Even from where he sits, even without his glasses, Toby can see the sticky tear tracks on his son’s round cheeks, the way his lip wobbles as he struggles to hold himself together, and he’s across the room in a heartbeat, any trace of his own troubles forgotten. He easily scoops Ollie up, tucking him in against his chest, and Ollie’s thin arms wrap tight around Toby’s neck as he buries his face in Toby’s shoulder. 

Immediately, Toby’s mind is awash with panic, running through a gauntlet of nightmare scenarios: illness and injuries and infections. But even as his pulse ticks up and his thoughts grow grim, he takes a deep breath and keeps steady on.

“Hey…” He lays his cheek against Ollie’s wild, dark curls and rubs a soothing hand up and down his back. “What’s wrong, Ollie Pop?”

Ollie sniffles, and, wiping his nose on Toby’s collar, he lifts his head. His eyes are keen with misery, and he looks for all the world like a poor, battered puppy. “Charlie stole Darley, and she won’t give him back.”

_Oh, thank God._

Toby deflates with relief; this he can handle. 

“Did she now?” He asks. Ollie nods, almost worryingly morose and solemn for a child of only five. “Well, why don’t you and I see if we can talk her round?”

Adjusting his grip and settling Ollie on his hip, Toby carries him back down the hall towards the twins’ room; it’s slightly discomforting, how quickly his arms begin to feel sore from the weight, how much his son seems to grow every day. 

When he opens the door, he finds the twins’ room in a state of disarray, toys and clothes tossed everywhere, and in the middle of it all, Charlie sits cross-legged atop her bed, the stuffed bay horse trapped in her lap; her small fingers are tangled in its mane, and she twists and twists the sleek hair around her finger. There’s hardly a second between the moment Ollie sees Darley and the moment he scrabbles out of Toby’s arms, dropping to the ground and charging at Charlie.

“Give him back! Give him back!” He screeches as he clambers up onto the bed. Charlie, springing up and raising the horse above her head with one hand, deftly slaps away Ollie’s grasping fingers with the other and hops down from the bed, blowing an ever-so-polite raspberry as she does so. But, of course, Ollie is not so easily deterred, and soon enough, the two of them are chasing each other in circles around the room, climbing over the furniture and shouting just for the sake of it.

Distantly, Toby wonders just how much his neighbours hate him, and when next Ollie comes tearing past him, he reaches out, sliding his hands under Ollie’s arms and lifting him up as he would a misbehaving cat. “No more of that,” he says, gently setting Ollie down beside him. “We use our words, remember?”

Ollie crosses his arms over his chest and puts on a spectacular pout, but he doesn’t try to argue, so Toby counts that as a win. Noting that she is no longer being pursued, Charlie stalls where she’s poised with one foot on the ground and one foot hiked up on Ollie’s bed. She eyes the pair of them warily, ready to make a break for it at any moment.

“Charlie, will you please give your brother his horse back?” Toby asks, nice and level and reasonable. Charlie shakes her head once, vehemently, whipping her now-bedraggled plait back and forth. “Okay, why not?”

“Because.”

Toby waits for further explanation, but when none seems to be forthcoming, he tries again. “How about--”

In a flash, Ollie has bounded across the room, managing to grab a hold of one of Darley’s legs before Charlie can rip him away, and then it’s an all-out tug-of-war. Just barely resisting the tremendous urge to groan and smack himself in the face, Toby hurries over to intercede before Darley loses a leg and this situation escalates from a small squabble to a full-scale disaster.

“Hey, hey, alright, stop it now,” he says, his voice firm but even. He places a hand on each of their shoulders, and they both fall still, gazing up at him curiously, poor Darley stretched taut between them, seconds from being drawn and quartered. Toby kneels down and looks at his daughter. “Charlie…”

Her mouth drops open, indignant and impressively scandalised, but she releases her hold on Darley, anyhow. “But Daddy!” She points a stubby, damning finger at Ollie, and stomps her little foot. “He took Adobe first!”

Toby waits for Ollie to deny it, but he only stares steadfastly at the ground, Darley clutched against his chest. Reaching out, Toby tilts his chin up and looks him in the eye. “Oliver, did you take your sister’s horse?”

Ollie hesitates for a long moment, his lips pursed with internal deliberation. “Maybe.”

“Go get Adobe and give him back to your sister, please. And Charlie, next time you have a problem with Ollie, instead of taking his things, you come tell me, okay?” Charlie nods with great reluctance. “Good.” Pushing himself back to his feet, Toby feels every second of the day condensed on his shoulders and jammed in his knees. “Okay, if that’s settled, it’s time for bed.”

Two perfectly synchronised whines answer him, but he merely taps his watch, well-warded against their powerful pouts. “It’s already past your bedtime as it is. Now, come on.”

Once Ollie has dug Adobe out from the closet and begrudgingly handed him over, Toby scrunges around the room, picking up as much of the mess as he can while the twins get changed into their pyjamas, then he shepherds them down the hall to the bathroom. Leant in the doorway, he watches over them as they stand on tiptoe atop their step stool, brushing their teeth in the mirror and getting foam all down their chins. Even as exhausted as he is, he can’t help but smile at the sight, his heart gone as warm and soft as the touch of the sun in June. His children can be a hell of a handful sometimes, but it’s always the littlest moments like this that remind him they’re more than worth it. Stepping up behind them, he drops a kiss on top of each of their heads and sets about untangling Charlie’s plait.

Back in their room, Ollie skips over and jumps onto his bed, but Charlie heads for their squat bookcase instead. She draws her finger along the mismatched spines for a moment before she plucks out a book and bounds over to thrust it up at Toby, her dark eyes wide and pleading.

“Bedtime means bedtime, Charlie,” he says, even as he accepts the book. He glances down at the cover, his lips curling up in a slight smile at the sight of the little cartoon bear in his blue duffle coat and bright red hat.

“Mr. Joshi said we have to practise reading at home,” Charlie counters smartly. “So we can get good faster.”

Toby frowns. “Mr. Joshi? Is that your teacher, then?” 

It’s not a great sign that he has to ask.

Charlie’s whole face lights up, though, and she clasps her little hands together, bouncing in place. “Yeah! He’s the best, Daddy! He lets us go outside and draw and sing songs, and we play lots of fun games, and he said he’ll buy us ice cream if we learn all our letters and numbers!”

“Is that so? Well, he sounds wonderful.” Charlie nods in emphatic affirmation, and Toby checks his watch once more. They were meant to be in bed fifteen minutes ago, but… “Alright, well, I suppose if Mr. Joshi says so, how can I refuse?”

After half an hour spent tucked between them on Charlie’s narrow bed—letting them take turns trailing their fingers along the lines as he read them aloud and feeling his chest well with pride each time they were able to pick out their sight words—Toby puts the book aside, tucks them each in with a kiss on their foreheads, and turns on the nightlight before heading for the door. With his hand on the light switch, he pauses and looks back at his children, snuggled up with their horses and already well on the way to sleep despite their protests.

“I love you,” he says softly, flicking off the light.

“Love you, Daddy,” come the matching, drowsy replies.

As quietly as he can, Toby closes the door and makes his way back to his room as all of his stress promptly re-descends upon him and picks at his heart like a hungry vulture. His day had begun rather poorly—spilling a scalding thermos of coffee in his lap after he’d dropped the children off at school and having to drive back home to change before rushing into campus—and it had only devolved further from there. He’d spent a good forty-five minutes of his first lecture on the phone with the IT department, trying to convince them that no, he could not fix the projector himself as it was mounted to the ceiling some ten feet above his head and could they please just send someone to handle it for him so he could teach his class already; he’d had to skip lunch and make do with an old packet of crisps from a dusty vending machine after he’d been cornered into a seemingly endless conversation by the ever loathsome Professor D’Abberville; he’d misplaced a packet on research opportunities he’d drawn together and spent half an hour frantically tearing his office apart to find it before his student arrived for their appointment, only to discover it stuck to a stack of ungraded assignments he'd forgotten about; and now, this double horse-napping incident has set him on edge once more.

It has occurred to him, in the past few months, that it may be getting close to the time for a move—an upgrade from two bedrooms to three to give the twins their own personal space and a bit more privacy—and tonight’s minor meltdown has only brought the idea further to the forefront of his mind. Toby knows they can’t share a room forever; it simply won’t be feasible or even appropriate as they grow older, but he hardly has the time to manage his life as it is at the moment, let alone with trying to squeeze house-hunting into the mix. Especially considering that Caldecott isn’t exactly flooded with suitable homes for sale or rent. And surely it would be terribly jarring for the twins, to move so abruptly, in the middle of the term, possibly taking them away from their school and their friends.

But would it be worse? To keep them cooped up together? To make them continue to share everything and refuse them the opportunity to stretch out and develop their own identities outside of each other? Will it just put them at odds more and more until not a single night goes by without them at each other’s throats? After all, he hadn’t exactly _loved_ sharing a room with Freddie until they were nearly ten years old, and they had come to bicker constantly over even the smallest of disagreements until, eventually, Toby simply picked up his things, walked out, and took over one of the many guest suites the estate had to offer. He and Freddie may be on much better terms now, but Toby doesn’t want that sort of pent-up animosity to ever exist between his children.

_God._

It’s almost sad. It _is_ sad. Five, nearly six, years in, and he still hasn’t even the faintest clue what he’s doing. No clue how to make the best choices for his children, no clue what may help or hurt them in the long run. There are moments when he thinks he has it all under control, moments when he feels as if he’s at last getting the hang of it, but they’re just that: moments, brief pockets of delusion that never last. All he can do is follow his instinct and pray that it’s right, but for all he knows, he could be fucking it all up immeasurably and doing everything wrong; the thought terrifies him, haunts the back of his mind and sticks in his throat every second of the day. He had sworn, when the twins were born, that he would be better than his own father. It had hardly been a high bar to step over, but he had promised himself, if nothing else, he would care for his children equally and make damn sure they always knew that they were loved and never let them feel as if his affection was a prize that had to be won. But lost as he is most days, he can’t help feeling that he may be just as bad as his father, only in a quieter way. 

Standing in the dark doorway of his room, Toby’s spiralling thoughts are bound to lead him down a rather nasty road, but they are blessedly, abruptly cut off when his phone starts buzzing harshly against his desk and he nearly jumps out of his skin. He scurries around the bed and checks the caller ID before swiping to the right to answer.

“You’ve just missed them,” he says, walking back over to close his door and flip the lights on. “I put them to bed five minutes ago.”

“Oh, well, that’s alright.” Theresa’s voice doesn’t dip in the slightest, just as cheery and bright as ever, but Toby knows her well enough to hear her disappointment anyhow. “I suppose I can make do with just you.”

“How you do flatter me, Lady Theresa.” Biting back a smile, he sits down at his desk, tucking his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he reopens his laptop. The word document he’d abandoned immediately pops back up, still woefully blank. “And how are you on this splendid evening?”

“I’m quite well, my dear sir,” Theresa says. “A bit tired, I must say. I spent all afternoon at the stables. We really thought today would be the day we welcomed little Millicent into the world, but it seems Willow isn’t quite ready for motherhood just yet.” 

She laughs, only a bit uneasy.

Toby delicately pushes them slightly to the left of the matter. “Which one is Willow again?”

“The little fourteen-hand palomino that you fell off while trying to mount.”

“Ah, of course.” Toby’s cheeks burn just thinking about it: his foot slipping on the stirrup, his children laughing uproariously as he landed in the dirt, the irrepressible glee in Theresa’s eyes, the cloudy bruise he had borne for weeks afterwards. “Thank you for bringing that up. Again.”

“You’re welcome! Anyhow…” A slight _oomf_ comes from the other end of the line as Theresa ostensibly flings herself down on some overly plush divan. Toby can see her perfectly—lounging in her ridiculous silk pyjama suit, her legs tucked up under her, twirling her hair around her finger—and he misses her dearly. “Susan says if nothing happens in the next two days, we may have to induce her.”

Toby hums in acknowledgement, his tongue stuck between his teeth as he single-finger types out a simple, opening equation. “And how are things with Susan?” He asks, carefully curious.

There’s a long pause. 

Then a dreamy sigh.

“I know it’s only been a few months, but…I’m in love with her. She’s just perfect, Toby. I can’t believe my luck. She’s so kind and knowledgeable and… _Beautiful_.” Toby can practically hear the blush on Theresa’s cheeks, and her voice sounds downright giddy, even to his ears. Which is truly saying something considering she almost always sounds like a sprightly cherub, and Toby has long since adjusted his metric accordingly. “And each time she smiles at me, I…Oh God, Toby, I think she might be the one. Is that absurd?”

Staring down at his laptop, Toby stops to ponder it for a moment; it’s not as if he has any experience that qualifies him to adjudicate the matter, but from the amount he’s heard Theresa gush about Susan since the Buchanan’s hired her on last year, he reasons she’s well within her rights to make such a bold claim.

“No, I don’t think it’s absurd at all,” he tells her. “When you know, you know, I suppose. I’m happy for you, Theresa.” And he is, even as his heart twinges with jealousy. “You ought to bring her up for the twins’ birthday next month. You know they absolutely adored her when you introduced them, couldn’t stop talking about her for days after.”

There’s another pause, only…This one feels heavier, more fraught.

With quiet guilt inching up his throat, Toby’s restless fingers twitch, and he reaches out to straighten one of the framed photos atop his desk: the twins, astride a squat gelding, their faces split with ear-to-ear smiles stained blue by the ice lollies they’d just polished off; himself, slightly off to the side, watching on with a smile but clearly strung tight with anxiety and ready to jump in at the smallest sign of trouble; and next to him, Theresa, all kitted out in her riding gear and staring starry-eyed at Susan where she is stood beside the gelding, the reins bunched in her calloused hands, a few errant strands of her curly, red hair hanging down over her freckled forehead.

“I’ll think about it,” Theresa says, at last, quiet and strained, and Toby knows better than to push the matter. A moment later, though, she’s snapped right back to her usual chipper self. “Anyhow, how are _you_ , Toby? How are the little ones? Tell me everything.”

Toby huffs out a breath of a laugh. “I’m not sure you have the time to hear _everything_.”

“Darling, I’ll make the time.”

Toby rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. Theresa knows by now that he’s only all too happy to jump on any opportunity to chatter about his children. “Well, we narrowly averted a nuclear meltdown tonight…”

After they’ve finished discussing the twins’ week-long, surprisingly resilient boycott of all foods that weren’t yellow and moved on to talking about how he is dangerously close to relenting to their latest attempt to wheedle him into adopting a scrappy mutt from the local shelter, Toby’s still made troublingly little progress on his assignment when he hears a door open on Theresa’s end of the line. And a second later, right on cue--

“Oh dear! I’ve just noticed the time, Toby,” she lies with no finesse whatsoever. “It’s _awfully_ late. I’m afraid I really must be going now.” 

Out of the goodness of his heart, Toby elects not to call her on it. “Uh-huh. I’ll give Charlie and Ollie your love, shall I?”

“Of course, and tell them how sorry I am to have missed them.”

“Will do. And I'm sure you'll be giving my _warmest_ regards to Ms. Pinto tonight?” He adds with a smirk, unable to help himself.

There’s a scandalised gasp, and Toby knows, were she here with him, he would have been swiftly rewarded with a none-too-gentle smack in the shoulder for that sly remark. “How very dare you!” She says, clearly not actually upset in the least. “You’re lucky I love you, Toby Hamilton.”

“Yeah, yeah, I love you, too, Theresa. Now go snog your girlfriend.”

When they’ve hung up, Toby sets his phone aside, and rubbing a knuckle over one exhaustion-stung eye, he checks the tiny clock on the corner of his laptop screen. Theresa hadn’t been lying about one thing: it is awfully late. Nearly midnight. He doesn’t have to be up until seven the next morning, but he really ought to get some sleep while he can. God knows he needs it. God knows it shows. Besides, the assignment could wait another day; he is the one setting the deadlines after all.

He glances over at his empty bed: the thin duvet pulled back on the left side, the single flat pillow, the cold, smooth white sheets.

He turns back to his laptop and settles in for a long night.


	2. i'd do it all again, i think you're my best friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you read the last chapter and think to yourself, "Wait, how in The Hell did Toby get these children?" Well, wonder no more! It's backstory time, baby! Also, I made a Choice in this backstory that I feel like everyone is gonna hate me for, so, uh, I'm sorry in advance.
> 
> Okay, so this whole chapter was really just an excuse for me to write Toby and Theresa being friends and supporting each other, but then it spiralled out of control and ended up being like...Three times longer than I originally meant it to be. Oops. I promise the other chapters will be shorter, and I swear I will get to the Adil/Toby content eventually. ~~Let's just hope I can keep up this pace.~~
> 
> Chapter title from, of course, "The Kids Aren't Alright" by Fall Out Boy.

The first time Toby had met Theresa it was, of course, at a wedding.

Toby was seventeen at the time, and he’d hardly even sat down at the glitzy table beside his mother at the reception before she sharply nudged his attention in the direction of a girl sitting across the table and a few seats down. It would seem the girl had been sneaking a glance in his direction as well, but when Toby turned, she sharply averted her gaze. 

His lips flattened into a thin grimace, he took a moment to look her over. Her dark hair was rolled and pinned up in fat curls that poorly framed her face; a limp string of pearls hung around her neck; a garish yet tame drab and pink fascinator sat at a jaunty angle atop her head; and the floral, mauve dress she wore made her look rather matronly, despite the fact that she was clearly no older than Toby himself.

It had only taken one look for Toby to know he was decidedly uninterested. As he tended to be with most girls that his mother pointed out to him. She was a pretty girl, of course, but absolutely nothing stirred in him at the sight of her. Not even intellectual interest as he couldn’t imagine they had anything in common. His mother, though, was not content with his immediate dismissal. Throughout the dinner, she needled at him and fully prevented him from enjoying even a bite of his exorbitantly expensive entrée. He put up a good fight, but her pestering continued even as the tables were cleared away and the dancing began; eventually, for his own sanity, he had to relent, and he made his way over to the girl, if only to get away from his mother.

Though she had smiled and curtsied as she introduced herself in return, it was quite evident, from the moment that Toby held out his hand and gave his name, Lady Theresa Buchanan was no more keen on him than he was on her. Of course, she made a show of being coy and giggling at every word out of his mouth, but it was an act so painfully artificial that even Toby could see right through it.

Thankfully, by the time the celebrations had worn well into the night, she seemed to grow exhausted from holding the frilly charade up, and with a harrowed sigh, she abruptly let it fall from her shoulders and crash to the ground like a lead weight. 

“You don’t fancy me even a little bit, do you?” She asked.

“Er…” Toby’s cheeks burned at such frankness, but he knew from the way she looked at him that he had to tell the truth. “No, no, I don’t. I’m sorry.”

“Good because I don’t much fancy you, either.” 

Toby had only half a second to be instinctively insulted before Theresa launched into a story about her newly acquired Irish Hunter. As it turned out, though, once the pretence of attraction was dropped between them, Toby quickly found not only could he breathe again, but also they had far more in common than his initial, admittedly unkind assessment had assumed. Granted, Theresa was a _fair_ bit more interested in horses than Toby could ever be, but they both found weddings dreadfully boring and enjoyed a good mystery novel and had plans to study at Oxford in the coming year.

When at last Toby’s mother came to collect him—with an I-told-you-so smile and a pleased glint in her eye that made Toby’s stomach turn—he and Theresa had spent hours huddled together, chatting amiably about their hopes for university, and they had even made a pact that whatever stuffy events they found themselves at in the coming months, they would find each other and get through it together. And they held to that pact, for six weddings, two galas, five christenings, seven birthdays, and one absolutely dreadful political rally. 

The more they saw of each other, the more they seemed to get on, and soon enough, they were swapping numbers and texting each other all through the day about anything and everything. What started out as a mere tactic for surviving the unbearable posturing and tedium of the British aristocracy quickly strengthened into a genuine friendship, and Toby was quietly delighted; finally, he had a real friend, someone who liked him for who he was rather than the front he put up or his father’s money, someone whose attention he didn’t have to share with Freddie, someone who turned to him first and actually listened to what he had to say. 

Not to mention, there was the rather large added bonus that, whenever they were ensconced together at a party, tittering away about their fellow guests, his mother no longer felt the need to shove him in the direction of the nearest viable partner. Though, of course, it did leave both of them open to nagging comments from all sides, prodding at the exact nature of their relationship, but they learned well how to sidestep the pressures of their family and refuse to allow the suggestive comments to encroach upon their relationship.

Once they packed up and headed off to Oxford together the next fall, they only grew closer, meeting for lunch whenever possible, studying with their heads ducked together in the Upper Reading Room of the Bod, and getting tipsy on refreshingly cheap sparkling wine and laughing about nothing in Toby’s dorm almost every Saturday night. Whenever the pressure became too much for Toby, Theresa was always right there to talk him down, and whenever Theresa found herself struggling to stay afloat, Toby was there to buoy her spirits. She shared a bittersweet whiskey with him the night he received the news of his father’s death, and he held her as she trembled with sobs the night she learned the sweet mare she’d had since she was four years old had fallen ill.

They’d carried each other through university, through heartbreak, through family trouble, through joy and tragedy, and they’d come out on the other side inextricably bound together. And when it came time for Theresa to graduate and move on while Toby stayed behind to work on his PhD, it felt as if a vital limb had been torn from his body. Of course, they still talked almost every day, but not having her there—to chatter on about her horses or her studies whenever he needed a distraction or to calm him down during revision week or to stop him driving himself into the ground over his dissertation—it weighed on him. He became almost unbearably lonely and rarely went out, always either in class or working on his research or puttering around his quiet flat.

He was quite pleasantly surprised and thrilled, then, when Theresa showed up, unannounced, on his doorstep a few weeks into the Hilary term of his second year of study. He was decidedly less thrilled, though, when he saw the tears standing in her eyes and the charcoal misery she wore like a heavy coat. After a moment of hesitation from shock, he quickly pulled her out of the brisk air and bustled her over to the sofa. Almost instantly, she collapsed into him and began to sob.

For quite some time, he simply held her as she trembled, rubbing her back and dropping kisses in her hair, wishing they would be bandages on her wound, whatever it may be. He wanted to ask what had upset her so terribly—his mind was whirling with a million different shades of disaster, and presumptive anxiety sat like tyrant in his stomach—but he knew it was best to let her come to it in her own time, so he only whispered to tell her it was alright, he had her, and she was going to be okay. And he could only hope he was telling the truth.

When her tears ran dry and her breathing evened out, with her head tucked on Toby’s shoulder, safely away from meeting his gaze, at last she whispered, “I’ve done something stupid, Toby. Something very, _very_ stupid.” She paused to choke back another raw sob. “My father is going to kill me,” she added, so quietly Toby nearly missed it.

Toby’s arms tightened around her, his pulse jumping in his veins. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it can’t be that bad, I’m sure--”

“It is that bad!” Theresa pulled back from him and turned away as she shook her head. “You don’t understand, if he finds out…” She fell silent, pressing a trembling hand to her lips.

Now Toby was really scared, shot through with that same familiar fear that haunted him as a child, that vicious squeeze in his throat that ate up his air and made his heart stumble every time his father had turned his brumal gaze down on him. Gingerly, he reached out to place a hand on Theresa’s shoulder.

“If he finds out _what_ , Theresa?” He asked, half-terrified of the answer. “What is it? What’s happened?”

With her eyes closed, one silent tear slipping down her cheek, she took a shuddering breath, then turned back to face Toby as if she were stepping up to a firing squad. 

He braced himself for the worst. 

“I’m pregnant.”

He could only stare at her as his mind scrambled to attach meaning to those two shrunken words, so quiet, so unexpected. When the realisation finally hit him, he did what he could to keep his face straight, to not let his panic show, but he’d never been good at hiding his emotions, and a fresh wave of tears sprung up in Theresa’s eyes.

“It’s terrible, it’s terrible, I know,” she said, shaking her head and turning away once more. “I don’t know how I could have been so stupid.”

“No, no. You’re not stupid, Theresa.” Toby hurriedly wrapped an arm around, pulling her back into him. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay. We’ll figure it out, somehow,” he promised even as he was floundering, shoved entirely out of his depth. “We’ll--We’ll take you to a clinic. I’m sure there’s somewhere nearby that could get you in, and--”

But Theresa was shaking her head again. “No, Toby, I--” 

She broke out of his grasp to pace in front of the sofa, her tear-damp sleeves bunched up in her white-knuckled hands, her arms crossed over her chest as if she were trying to hold herself together. Toby felt utterly useless, lost and small and helpless; though he knew it couldn’t be even a fraction of what Theresa was enduring. Folding his clammy hands in his lap and fiddling with the heavy ring on his pinky, he tried to remember how to breathe as he sat there and watched her movements become more and more agitated, a far cry from the refined Earl’s daughter he’d first met five years ago.

After six passes, Theresa stilled. “I don’t want that,” she said, staring down at a particularly gruesome whorl in the hardwood.

Toby frowned, confused. “You don’t want an--”

“No.”

Theresa looked at him then, searching his face for something: judgment, reproach, condemnation, disgust. But she wouldn’t find it, not from him, not ever. Instead, he only shrugged and held out his hand.

“Okay.”

Her shoulders dropped from their hunched guard, and taking his hand, she fell back onto the sofa beside him like a marionette that had its strings cut. She wrapped her arms around his and hugged it, boa-constrictor tight, to her chest as she laid her head back on his shoulder. They sat in silence for a stretched moment, leant into each other, the only thing holding the other up.

“But I can’t keep it, either,” Theresa whispered, though they both already knew that. “It’ll be a scandal. This country thinks it’s come so far, but an Earl’s daughter, unwed and pregnant at twenty-two? The tabloids will have a field day…” Her voice was so tiny and grey that Toby hardly recognised it. “Mummy will be furious…Daddy will disown me.”

“I’ll marry you, then,” Toby said because, in his mind, it really was that simple. 

Slowly lifting her head, Theresa stared at him as if he’d suggested some unspeakable crime, but he was undeterred and scooped up her hand in his. 

“We’ll elope. We can go to the register office right now and be married by the end of the day,” he explained, his mind tumbling through the logistics. They’d have to hurry as it was already nearing two o’clock and the office wouldn’t stay open much past four. And they’d need witnesses, of course, but it would be easy enough to convince two strangers to stand by while they took their vows. And there was the fee to consider. They’d have to research the details a bit more before they went storming in, but it would work.

“I’m sure your parents won’t be pleased,” he added, knowing a second-born son of a mere baron wouldn’t be high on the Buchanans’ son-in-law wishlist. “But I don’t think they should mind too much in the end, and then, by the time you begin to show, everyone will simply assume--”

“No,” Theresa said, firm enough to stop Toby dead in his tracks. She slipped her hand out of his grip and shifted to face him head-on, her eyes uncompromising even as they were yet shining with tears. “Toby, I can’t let you do that. I _won’t_ let you do that.”

“Look, I know it wouldn’t be ideal,” he conceded. “But at least that way you could keep the child without facing total social ostracisation, and…” Something implacable and noxious squirmed in the pit of his stomach, but he pressed on. “We like each other well enough, don’t we? We could make it work.”

“Is that really what you want?” She asked, a hint of desperation leaking out between the words, like a rabbit caught in a bear trap. “A lifetime of well enough and just making it work? Don’t you want more than that, Toby?”

In all honesty, Toby had never spared much thought towards what he wanted from that particular area of his life, despite his mother’s best efforts. As much as he had once liked the thought of a companion to share his life with, he’d been soured on the concept as he grew older, watching his father betray his mother in a hundred different ways while she had to go on as normal, pretending not to feel the callous knife lodged in her back. Love became a difficult thing to believe in their household, and eventually, Toby came to assume he would simply live out his days as a bachelor, too dedicated to his studies to bother with the trouble of romance. 

He chose to lie anyway. 

“Of course I do, but this is more important than what I want…” He paused, waiting for Theresa’s eyes to meet his once more. “Theresa, you’re my best friend, and I’d gladly spend the rest of my life by your side. We could be happy together, and even if it was partly a sham, something’s better than nothing, isn’t it?”

If possible, Theresa looked even more miserable than when she first arrived, only now her misery was directed at Toby, and his heart sat like a boulder in his throat. “Not to me,” she whispered, as if she were afraid the words would shatter him completely. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Toby, but I--I can’t marry you. My whole life I’ve watched my parents just tolerate each other for the sake of appearances, and I…I don’t want to live like that.”

It hurt. There was no use denying it. He didn’t truly want to marry Theresa either, but her rejection stung him down to the bone all the same. “Alright,” he choked out with a stiff nod. Immediately, he hated himself for being so affected, for being so sensitive, for being so stupid to have even suggested the idea in the first place. He threw his eyes to the ground as his cheeks burned with humiliation and curled in on himself, angling slightly away from Theresa. 

He let the fraught, plastic silence smother them for a long moment before he asked, “What are you going to do, then?” 

It came out just a touch too sharp, his embarrassment bled in, lacing his voice with bitter, defensive cruelty.

“I don’t know…I don’t know, I--” 

Theresa broke off, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders hiccuping with the tiny sobs she was trying in vain to swallow down. In an instant, all of Toby’s chagrin was forgotten; with gentle hands, he pulled her in against his chest and kissed the top of her head.

“We’ll figure it out,” he promised once more, holding her as tight as he dared, his own tears shaken loose. “You’ve got time. And whatever you decide, I’m going to be here for you, okay? You’re not going to be alone. Anything you need, anytime, I’ll be here. We’ll figure it out together.”

They sat there, wrapped up in each other, for God knows how long as Toby whispered himself hoarse, spilling reassurance and devout promises into the still, darkening air. Until, at last, Theresa straightened from her slump, smoothed herself out, and asked about dinner. Toby took it for what it was; they still had more they had to talk about, they still had plans to make, they still had questions that needed to be asked, but all of that could wait for another day.

“I’ll order something in, shall I?” He asked. “Or I could _try_ to make you something myself, if you’re willing to take that risk. I mostly have coffee and biscuits, but I’m sure I could throw something together. What are you in the mood for?”

With a smile as soft as it was sad, Theresa shook her head and reached up to brush his hair back; her eyes flickered over him with gentle, resigned affection before she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “I wish I could be in love with you, Toby Hamilton.”

Toby dredged up a flimsy smile of his own. “Yeah, me too.”

\---

The next time Theresa showed up on his doorstep, she had two suitcases in tow, deep bags under her eyes, and just the slightest hint of a bump beginning to press out against her t-shirt. She was rather lucky: four months in before she began to show. It gave her plenty of time to come up with an adequate excuse to allay her parents’ suspicion and explain away her impending five-month absence with a fictitious study abroad programme. 

With a tempered smile, Toby took her bags for her and waved her in.

It wasn’t to be the most convenient of arrangements, given that Toby’s flat boasted only one bedroom and one remarkably inhospitable sofa for sleeping accommodations, but they hadn’t much other choice. There was no one else Theresa trusted enough to go to, she needed someplace she could lay low with little chance of being spotted by any of their peers, and Toby would never dream of turning her away under even the best of circumstances. Even if he was on the brink of the final and most rigorous year of his degree and really would not have the time to even consider anything outside of his classes and his dissertation, they would find a way to make it all work.

Still, Toby’s skin had itched as Theresa followed him into his room, and his neck flushed with sickly heat as she dropped down on his bed to look around. He’d spent the entire previous day cleaning every nook and cranny of the room, burning candles and washing his sheets, and boxing up all the bric-a-brac and the little pieces of his life he couldn’t bear to leave open to inspection. Even with all that, though, it was almost unbearably intimate: to have her in this tucked-away space where he retreated from the world, where he had always been safely alone. He had nothing to hide, of course, and he knew Theresa wouldn’t go snooping through his things, but all the same, he felt exposed—as if there were some nasty secret he was unaware of sealed in the walls, just waiting to be discovered—and he couldn’t help the balmy panic that clogged up his throat at the thought of her living in there for the next twenty weeks. But it was too late; what was done was done.

That night, by the time they began preparing for bed, after an unusually tense dinner and a stiff stint in front of the telly, Toby had at last managed to shove his antsy discomfort to the back of his mind, but it soon came roaring back. With his pyjamas, a pillow, and a spare blanket in hand, he was ready, if not willing, to set up on his sofa and embark on what was surely to be a five-month journey to a chronic backache. Before he could wish Theresa a good night and make his exit, though, she grabbed him by the hand and asked him, quiet and almost shy, to stay with her; he hadn’t the heart to refuse.

The moment he slid beneath the sheets, Theresa curled herself around him, pressed along his side, clinging to him as if she were afraid he was going to disappear in a puff of smoke; he slid an arm around her shoulders and prayed she couldn’t hear his heart thrumming like a deranged bird in his chest. They had shared a bed many times before; too often, their late Saturday nights in university had ended with them carelessly tangled together in Toby’s narrow single bed. 

But this felt different. 

As everything had since Theresa rejected his admittedly inadequate proposal. 

There was no part of him that was honestly interested in marrying her and he knew she did them both a favour by saying no, but the idea stuck in his mind like a malicious burr anyhow, infecting his thoughts whenever they were together. He couldn’t stop imagining what it would be like to call Theresa his wife, to raise this child together, to share a bed with her every night and do the things that husbands and wives do: it terrified him, and that somehow scared him even more.

If ever there was a woman he should have been attracted to, it was Theresa—who was undoubtedly beautiful, who he got on with so well and so easily, who made him laugh and understood him in ways no one else seemed capable of—and yet…Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Of course, Theresa was almost akin to a sister to him at this point, so it made sense that it would seem a bit wrong to think of her in such a way, but it was more than that; the mere thought of being with her physically was enough to make him queasy down to the bone, and now, he was all too aware of her body against his: the tender swell of her stomach, her inescapable warmth, the silken touch of her pyjamas, her soft hair tickling his chin, the flowery scent of her perfume. He prickled with unease, as if he’d swallowed an angry swarm of bees that was nettling through his every vein, and something cold and familiar scratched at the back of his mind.

He didn’t get much sleep that night.

Nor any night after.

\---

Three weeks after she moved in, Theresa casually asked Toby if he would accompany her to her first ultrasound appointment. Toby—who had been bustling around the flat, trying to get himself dressed and force down at least a scrap of breakfast as he frantically hunted for his notes on computational complexity theory for his exam—froze in place. 

At that point, the lingering tension between him and Theresa had long since snapped due to simple necessity. She hadn’t been entirely herself as of late; she tried, and she put up a good front most days, but it was almost as if someone had turned down her saturation, leaving her dull and grey and brittle. Toby, for his own peace of mind, had been inclined to pass it off as a routine symptom of the pregnancy, the unavoidable physical consequence of the body suddenly having to divert its resources to care for another. And seeing her so miserable, he had dutifully brushed aside his own qualms and pledged to do whatever he could to ease her burden. 

But the moment the word ultrasound tumbled from her lips, the discomfort was quick to crawl back up his throat. 

They would think he was the father, if he went with her. They would assume he and Theresa were a happy young couple expecting their first in a long line of children, and he would have to play along even as his skin itched with a shame he couldn’t explain. 

But someone had to go with her; she couldn’t possibly be left to face this moment all on her own, and since she didn’t seem particularly inclined to divulge who the actual father was, nor discuss any details of the circumstances that led to her pregnancy, it fell to Toby to hold her hand through it.

On the morning of the appointment, anxious as he may have been as the reality of the situation finally closed in on him, Toby couldn’t deny there was also a small part of him that was almost…excited. Rather like a child would be inevitably excited at the prospect of a surprise, no matter what sort of surprise it was. Theresa, on the other hand, seemed decidedly less keen; her eyes darted around the too-bright waiting room as if she expected to be caught at any moment, and her knee bounced up and down in a manner that did little to disguise her nerves, so he kept his muddled anticipation to himself and let her squeeze the life out of his hand as they slumped together in the garish lime-green chairs.

As the perky nurse led them back through the bland beige halls, chattering away excitedly about the procedure, Toby kept waiting for her to say something about their relationship, to make some remark about what a lovely couple they were or ask if this was their first. But nothing ever came, and little by little, his anxiety began to return to its normal, manageable level. 

Walking into the small exam room, Theresa frowned as she eyed the ultrasound machine and its dull, blank screen, and she absently smoothed a hand over her stomach; it had ballooned in the past month and now stuck out significantly from her waist, impossible to hide. With a smile that he could only hope was encouraging, Toby offered his hand to help her up onto the paper-covered examination table; she accepted with a grimace, and the nurse turned on the machine with a sharp click.

Toby watched in squicked fascination as the sonographer, after an astonishingly brief introduction, unceremoniously lifted Theresa’s blouse and proceeded to drizzle the mucus-like gel over her stomach. Theresa hissed at the cold touch of the gel, but the sonographer reassured her with a gentle pat on the knee as she pressed the doppler down just above Theresa’s belly button. A moment later, a bizarre, pulsing image jumped to life on the monitor. It looked like something out of an old abstract film, indistinguishable shades and shapes of black and white crawling by as she slowly swept the doppler around until, at last, the silhouette of a small round head appeared. Toby’s breath immediately fell out of his chest, and Theresa, her hand now clammy in Toby’s, squeezed his fingers hard enough that he sincerely worried they might break.

“Ah, there we are,” the sonographer said, turning to them with an indulgent smile. “There’s our first little one.”

The realisation hit Toby and Theresa at the same time.

“First?” They asked in perfect, shocked unison.

“Yes.” The sonographer had turned back to the screen once again. She carefully inched the doppler down and to the right until a second, inverted head filled the screen. “Ms. Buchanan, I’m happy to inform you that you are carrying twins.”

Toby’s heart jumped in his chest, crashing hard against his ribs. Like a bloody Pavlovian response.

“Twins?” Theresa echoed a moment later, her voice suspiciously blank, her grip on Toby’s hand gone slack. “It’s twins? Two of them?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The same absent smile was still stuck to the sonographer’s face as she lifted up the spectacles that hung from a beaded chain around her neck and leaned in to peer at the image on the monitor. “Would you like to hear their heartbeats?”

Theresa looked up at Toby. 

Toby looked down at her and, unsure what she wanted from him, shrugged.

“Okay…” Theresa agreed, her eyes still glued to him. She sounded as fragile as a baby bird dropped from its nest onto the pavement. Not at all like a jubilant mother-to-be.

A splinter of panic lodged in Toby’s throat, but its cries of alarm were quickly drowned out as the sonographer clicked another button and the shallow, ricocheting pulse of two tiny heartbeats filled the room. 

Now it was Toby’s turn to squeeze Theresa’s hand as his knees went to jelly. An inexplicable surge of protectiveness welled up in his chest, and a few tears sprung up in his eyes as he gazed between the image on the screen and Theresa’s stomach. Just the thought of it, of two delicate little lives growing, curled together as they waited for their time to come into the world: it was enough to make him ache with preemptive love. Because he did not need to meet these children nor hold them nor even see them to know that he would love them with all of his heart and then some, every minute of every day for the rest of his life.

“That’s enough, thank you,” Theresa whispered. That same broken-boned voice. 

Toby snapped out of his euphoria in an instant. 

When he glanced back at her, there were tears spilt on Theresa’s cheeks as well, but he knew they were not the same as his own. Her eyes were wide, and she looked pale and small and _scared_. And that scared him. He reached up with his free hand and brushed a twisted strand of her hair back behind her ear.

“Alright?” He asked.

He was hardly convinced by the shaky nod she gave him in response, but he knew well enough that this was not the place to discuss the matter, so he tucked his reservations in his back pocket and placed his hand on her shoulder.

“And are you interested in knowing the sex of the babies?” Removing her spectacles, the sonographer swiveled back to them, her expectant eyes pinballing between Toby and Theresa. It was quite clear that she was eager to tell them, and, God help him, Toby wanted to know just as badly, but it wasn’t his decision to make.

Though, Theresa was still staring blankly at the monitor, not seeming to have heard the question at all. Toby’s skin prickled as he felt the sonographer’s eyes land and stick on him, concerned and expecting an answer, but he waited for another patient ten seconds before timidly jostling Theresa’s shoulder.

“Theresa,” he said softly, suddenly afraid that if he spoke too loud she may shatter. “She’s talking to you.”

As if she were coming out of a trance, Theresa blinked, then shook her head minutely. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I…” She bit her lip and looked up at Toby once more; he did what he could to smile for her, but it came out a strained and mangled thing. Nonetheless, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, slipping back into the role she was raised in. “Yes, I think I’d like to know,” she told the sonographer primly, with more confidence than Toby knew she actually felt.

The sonographer’s grin snapped back in an instant. “Well, Ms. Buchanan,” she said, her hands clasped together over her heart and gooey glee in her rheumy eyes. “It looks like you’re going to be blessed with a little boy _and_ a little girl.”

“Oh my…”

Once they’d been given a long list of recommendations and instructions for scheduling Theresa’s next appointment, the nurse had returned and helped mop up the gunk smeared all over her stomach before perkily shooing them on their way with two glossy print-outs of the scan sealed inside a manilla envelope. Theresa remained silent as they exited the building, as they climbed into the car, as they made their way back into the city proper; she sat turned away from Toby, her eyes locked on the world rushing past her window as her fingers toyed with the envelope’s frail clasp. Toby kept his eyes on the road and tried not to panic.

It was only eleven-thirty when they arrived back at Toby’s flat, but rather than head to the kitchen for lunch, Theresa veered off to the bedroom without a word, and Toby watched her go with a foreboding lump in his throat. 

_She’s just a bit overwhelmed_ , he told himself as he stepped into the kitchen and set about searching the cupboards for something he could throw together. 

_She’s had some big news, and she needs some time to adjust_ , he told himself as he pulled down a plate and a loaf of bread.

 _Twins are quite the surprise, after all; her head must be reeling_ , he told himself as he tugged open the fridge.

 _She’ll be fine tomorrow_ , he lied to himself as he carried the sandwich back to the bedroom.

He knocked quietly, his knuckles barely scraping against the wood, before he pushed the door open. Theresa was laying on her side in the dark, atop the duvet, still in all her clothes. He set the plate down on the nightstand with a hollow _clink_ that made him flinch.

“I brought you some lunch,” he whispered, the air too thick in his throat. “Pickles, peanut butter, cheese and onion crisps, and no crust. Completely disgusting, just like you like now.”

The joke falls flat and dead.

“Thank you.”

She didn’t move, didn’t turn to face him, but Toby could hear the tears clear in her voice, the rough, raw edge of them; the lump in his throat grew thorns.

“Theresa…” He said, his own voice shrunken and weighed down by fear. “Are you alright?”

“Just tired, darling,” she answered with a sniffle. “Just need to lie down for a bit.”

 _A bit_ turned out to be eight hours. 

Toby, as ever fuelled by restless anxiety, had thrown his thoughts away from the trouble brewing in his bedroom by throwing himself into his coursework. In recent weeks, as he dashed about preparing for exams and looking after Theresa, he’d been neglecting his dissertation in a manner that he simply couldn’t afford if he wanted to graduate on time; so, when at last Theresa emerged from the bedroom, Toby didn’t even notice, too busy up to his ears in a spew of half-coherent outlines and wonky graphs and sketchy equations and rifling through his notebook in search of a particular phrase he’d jotted down in the middle of class so as not to forget it, which would be helpful if only he could actually remember where he’d written it.

“Have you eaten anything today?”

Toby startled at the sound of her voice, dropping the pen he’d been tapping against his thigh. When he whipped around, he found her leant in the doorway, one hand on her hip and the other holding an empty plate. There was a hint of reproach in her gaze—as she undoubtedly already knew the answer to her question was a no—and her hair and her clothes were a rumpled mess, but she looked better, marginally more awake and vibrant than she had been before, and she’d clearly eaten the sandwich, so Toby ignored the implicit disapproval and let his relief bend his lips into a smile.

“Sorry, just got a bit…” He gestured vaguely at the hurricane of papers scattered around him. “Caught up.”

Shaking her head and rolling her eyes, Theresa stopped to drop a kiss on his forehead before padding over to the kitchen. “Dinner, Toby Hamilton,” she called over her shoulder. “We need dinner.”

A quick glance out the window told him she was right; it wasn’t quite dark yet, but it was on its way. He closed his laptop and began gathering up his mess into semi-organised piles. “How about takeaway from Bodrum?”

Once she set her plate in the sink, Theresa paused and placed a hand on either side of her stomach; she mimed as if she were shaking it up and down, then she gave Toby a frown. “My sources say no.”

_She’s making jokes again, that’s a good sign._

His smile stretching a bit wider, he asked, “Zheng, then?”

Lips pursed thoughtfully, she consulted the magic twin ball once more. “Signs point to yes.”

Thirty minutes later, takeaway containers in hand, they were huddled up on the sofa together, Toby’s tatty old throw spread over their laps and Theresa’s perpetually-cold feet shoved beneath Toby’s thigh. An old episode of _University Challenge_ was on, and Toby was roundly chiding the Strathclyde team for failing to come up with the word “whippersnapper” despite Jeremy practically giving them the answer in the question. Theresa, never much of a fan of the programme herself, watched on, faintly amused as she munched on her prawn dumplings that she had inexplicably doused in pickle juice. But when it came time for a music round, Theresa deftly plucked the remote away from Toby and switched the telly to mute.

“What will we name the children, then?” She asked before stuffing an entire dumpling in her mouth.

Toby stared at her, nonplussed. “We?”

Still abiding by at least one of her inbred manners, she waited until she was finished chewing to answer him. “Yes, we. I can barely be trusted to name a horse on my own, Toby, let alone two human children.”

Toby continued to stare at her. “And you’re somehow under the impression that I’ll do any better?”

“Well, you couldn’t be worse.”

She flicked the volume back on, but they hardly paid the television any attention for the next hour and a half as they volleyed names back and forth and politely vetoed each other’s most terrible ideas. Eventually, they pulled out Toby’s laptop and squeezed together in front of the dim screen to scroll through site after site of baby names. 

The girl’s name was decided first. They both spotted it at the same time, and in the same breath, they whispered, “ _Charlotte_.”

They knew, immediately, it was right.

The boy’s name proved a bit more troublesome. Theresa wanted something classic and stately to pair with Charlotte, but Toby was wary of the overdone, traditional English names, the majority of which were not even English to begin with. His objections, though, didn’t count for much in the end because the second Theresa saw Oliver, perched at the top of a list of the previous year’s most popular boys’ names, the matter was settled.

Charlotte and Oliver.

Just the thought was enough to make him smile. 

He knew they would be perfect.

\---

Theresa mustered a remarkable effort, but she could only keep up her brave face for a month before the mask cracked straight down the middle. It was bound to happen; with Toby’s term ended and only his research to occasionally take him out of the flat, he and Theresa were spending more time together than ever, and that meant hours and hours, day after day, of pretending as if she were alright when she was actually anything but. Of course, she had slipped before, and Toby had seen through the chipper veneer she held by the skin of her teeth, but, once again, he’d been inclined to overlook it, pass it off as a mere reality of any pregnancy, too afraid to prod at the issue and discover the full scope of it. And eventually, the pressure to smile simply wore her too thin.

As it was, the break came, seemingly, out of nowhere. Toby was in the middle of fixing a mediocre dinner, trying and failing to keep the pot of pasta he’d overfilled from completely boiling over, and Theresa was sat at the dining table, picking at her chipped lavender nail varnish as she flipped through a secondhand parenting guide. 

A dastardly little spit of scalding water flung itself from the roiling pot and landed on the back of Toby’s hand; he cursed, quite loudly, and dropped the wooden spoon to the floor as he bought the stinging wound up to his mouth. Theresa glanced up at the commotion and when their eyes met, suddenly, as if some dam inside her had burst, she began at once to weep.

His pain forgotten, Toby just only had the presence of mind to switch off the hob before he rushed to her side. Fear rose like sour gravel in his throat: gritty and impossible to breathe through. 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” 

She clamped a hand over her mouth and shook her head. 

Placing a hand on her knee, gripping probably a bit too firmly, he kneeled down next to her, and in the softest voice he had, he said, “Theresa, tell me what it is. Let me help you, please.”

Theresa closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, and there was a long pause in which Toby imagined he very well might explode from the sheer amount of anxiety building in his chest. Then, she laid her hand on top of his, her fingers clamped tight around his palm.

“I don’t want them,” she whispered. The second the words were out, she seemed to crumble, every bit of faux confidence she braced herself with over the past six months splintered and thrown from her. A ragged sob escaped her lips, and she looked utterly sick with herself, as if she had just confessed to some heinous crime. “I don’t want the children, Toby.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, shunted off to the side and covered over with a thick layer of denial, Toby had already known this, but that didn’t make it any easier. 

“Okay,” he said slowly, thrown entirely out of his depths. 

He needed to say more, to comfort her somehow, but what was there to say? What could have possibly made it better? He’d done everything he could to ease her way through this, done everything he could to make the best out of a decidedly troublesome situation, and yet he’d still failed her. Still didn’t see, still wilfully ignored the true depths of her pain and confusion and failed to pull her out before it was too late. And it was too late now. Twenty-five weeks in, they’d just missed the cut-off.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, hoarse with shame, unable to meet her eyes.

“All this time, I thought…” Theresa took a shaky breath. “I thought I would grow into it, I thought, over time, I’d begin to feel ready, but I’m not. I’m not ready, Toby.” Her hands closed around his and she stared down at him, imploring, like a beggar desperate for an ounce of mercy. “I don’t want to be a mother. I can’t be a mother. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Toby--” 

He pushed up, pulling her into his arms and petting her hair as she shivered.

“Am I a terrible person?” She whispered against his chest, so small and bruised.

“No,” he answered immediately. “No, Theresa, you’re not a terrible person. You’re just…” He sighed. “You’re twenty-three. You’re not ready for your entire life to change just as it was finally beginning.”

Her fingers twisted in Toby’s shirt, Theresa let out a slow breath, then nodded. “What are we going to do now?”

Stepping back, Toby lowered himself into the seat beside her and took up her hand once more. “Well,” he said carefully, turning his mind over for wisdom he knew he did not have. “Truthfully, I think adoption is our only route from here.”

“No.”

Toby—not expecting such swift, vehement dismissal—frowned and simply stared at Theresa for a long moment, baffled. “What do you mean no?”

“I mean--” She cut herself off with a huff. Her free hand ran absently over the swell of her stomach. “How will I know that whoever adopts them is going to treat them well? What if they’re awful to them? What if they’re cruel or negligent or--”

“Theresa,” he said calmly, even as his own protective instincts were rising once more. “I’m sure the vast majority of couples looking to adopt are doing so with the best of intentions. Besides, you’ll be able to do interviews, get to know the families and choose the one that you deem best.”

Theresa’s grimace remained unmoved and unconvinced. “Toby, you know as well as anyone that people can put on all sorts of respectable airs when they want something and be entirely different, abhorrent people behind closed doors. And…” She paused, her lip drawn between her teeth. Her eyes skated away from Toby’s, dropping down to the table, and she drew a finger along a dull scratch there. “What if I want to see them?” She asked, surprisingly sheepish.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, just because I can’t raise them doesn’t mean I don’t want to be a part of their lives. I still want to see them and watch them grow and play with them and love them, but what couple is going to allow that? Some needy woman interloping on their little family?”

There were tears rising once more in her eyes, and Toby hated that he couldn’t stop them, that he didn’t have any answers for her, that he couldn’t magically will the world into the perfect shape for her.

“Hey,” he said gently; he reached out to tip up her chin and catch her eye. “We still have three months, yes? We’ll figure it out. I promise you, we’ll figure something out, and it’ll be alright. Okay?” He waited for her to nod, then leant in and dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Alright, then. You think you can eat?” He asked, standing and making his way back over to his abandoned pot.

Theresa managed half a laugh and patted her stomach. “Do you really have to ask?”

Toby managed half a smile in return. “I suppose not.”

After they quietly powered through their cold, soggy pasta and unanimously elected to leave the washing up for tomorrow, they found themselves cuddled up on the sofa, watching some terrible, mushy film that they were mostly talking over and poking fun at. Theresa lied with her head in Toby’s lap while he tried, with admirable effort but little success, to plait a small section of her hair. It shouldn’t have been so difficult, but he kept getting the strands tangled and forgetting which one he had last crossed over. Theresa, though, seemed perfectly content with his sloppy work, her turmoil not resolved by any means but alleviated for the moment.

“You know,” Theresa said, the slightest hint of teasing in her voice. “Someday, you’re going to make an excellent father, Toby Hamilton.”

She clearly meant it as a joke, but Toby’s heart immediately skidded to a stop, slamming hard against his ribs, and a potentially disastrous idea that had been lurking, unacknowledged in the back of his mind, sprang free.

That night, once Theresa had stretched up with a tremendous yawn and shuffled off to bed, Toby sat awake for hours, pondering the idea, puzzling out the logistics and weighing the options. It wouldn’t be feasible, he knew, with his schoolwork and his research and his dissertation. It simply wouldn’t be possible. He’d have no time, and besides that, he’d have no idea what he was doing. He was no older than Theresa, no more prepared. He could barely take care of himself most days. He was far too nervous and squeamish. He’d run himself ragged before the end of the first term.

And yet…

The next morning, Toby woke with a crick in his neck and a grand total of three hours of sleep in his bank. Rubbing a none-too-kind hand over his face, he trudged into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee and was slumped against the counter, with his heavy eyes closed and his forehead propped against one of the upper cupboards, when Theresa walked in, looking remarkably refreshed. 

“Rough night?” She asked—amused, perplexed, and genuinely concerned all at the same time; she slipped around him and pulled down a box of cereal.

Toby’s heart thrummed in his chest, and his whole body felt electrified by anxiety, jittering and too warm, but he’d made up his mind, and he turned to face her, stubborn determination bolstering his failing nerves.

“I’ll take them,” he said.

The carton of milk frozen halfway over her bowl, Theresa stared blankly at him, her head cocked to the side like a confused spaniel, but he knew that she understood exactly what he meant. So, they stood there, watching each other as the coffee pot gurgled and the birds twittered on, blissfully unaware, outside the window. 

“Toby, no.” She put the carton down with a solid thump. “You can’t.”

He’d expected her to disagree; of course she would, any sane person would. But he’d spent all night drawing up the facts and figures. He could convince her. He knew he could.

“Just think about it, Theresa,” he said, trying his best to remain level and not beg outright. “You said you wanted someone you could trust to treat them well. You said you wanted someone who would let you be a part of their lives. You said I’d make an excellent father.” He ticked each point off on his fingers and already he could see the appeal beginning to work. He stepped over to Theresa, taking her hands in his own. “Twins run in my family, Theresa, and we look enough alike: I could easily say they’re my own, and people would believe me. And I’m hardly close with my family as it is. It won’t much matter what they think of me, and I haven’t nearly as much to lose. It just makes sense. Why wouldn’t I take them?”

“Toby…” Theresa’s frown cut him down, straight to the quick, and she pulled one of her hands free to lay it on his cheek, so soft it ached. “This was my mistake. You don’t have to keep cleaning up after me. You’ve done too much already.”

“This isn’t me cleaning up after you, Theresa. It’s--” He couldn’t speak; his heart had lodged itself in his throat. How could he explain it to her, this unprecedented emotion, this fierce devotion that had grown so steadily, so quietly in his chest over the past six months? This wasn’t an impulsive decision, not by a long shot; it was the foregone conclusion to a tale that began twenty-three years ago, when a baby was born four minutes too late to be worthy of his father’s love. “I want to do this, Theresa. Not just for you. For me, too. Please…”

Theresa’s eyes searched his, looking deeper into him than anyone ever had before.

Then, she lowered herself into her chair with a complicated sigh.

“Okay.”

Toby knew it wasn’t an ‘okay’ that meant agreement, only an ‘okay’ that indicated a willingness to hear him out, but that was all he needed.

\---

“You could help, you know.”

Two enviably light shopping bags swinging from her arms, Theresa turned back to watch Toby as he struggled to lug the rest of their shopping through the unhelpfully narrow door. With a smile that was decidedly amused and not in the least bit apologetic, she patted her belly, which now looked as if she was attempting to smuggle an exercise ball beneath her blouse, and said, “Sorry, dear. No strenuous labour, doctor’s orders.”

Biting back his own smile, Toby rolled his eyes and dumped his bags on the dining table. “I’d hardly qualify carrying in the shopping as strenuous.”

“Well, in that case, you should be able to manage just fine on your own, then, yes?” She glided over to the sofa and flopped down, her feet propped up on the coffee table. She gave him a look that challenged him to object, but he knew when he was beaten.

It took him three more trips to haul in the rest of their plunder from the car, and he very nearly threw his already-knot-infested back out trying to drag the surprisingly heavy flat-pack cots up the front path and over the threshold. Why on Earth they had decided it would be best to do all the shopping for the twins at once and put together all the nursery furniture themselves, Toby hadn’t the faintest idea, but he was very much regretting it at the moment.

Theresa, though, seemed perfectly delighted, rifling through the bags of little onesies she picked out and squealing with cutesy glee. And even as his body ached, Toby’s heart sighed in relief. After months of living like a woman wrapped in a fog, suffocating beneath the weight of her sudden reality, she was finally returning to herself again, finally bubbling and lively as she was meant to be.

Once she had her fill of swooning over the itsy-bitsy booties and the sweet little swaddle-cloths, she pulled their two most important purchases of the day from the bag on her right. She set the plush horses on her lap, gazing down at them with a childlike fondness, as if she were barely refraining from hugging them to her chest and squeezing the stuffing out of them.

“What should we call them?” She asked.

Toby, busy sawing away at the thick plastic straps that stubbornly held the cot box closed, frowned. “I thought we decided on names three months ago.”

“Not the children, you dolt,” she said, laughing just as he’d hoped she would. It was such a lovely sound to hear again. “The horses, what shall we name the horses?”

The first strap snapped with a sharp _twang_ , and Toby just barely avoided being slapped in the face by the recoil. He immediately set to work on the second with renewed vigour. “I believe you have more experience in naming horses than I do, Theresa. I’ll defer to your expertise. Though, I have to say…” The second strap sprung free after just a few seconds’ work, and Toby welled with frankly undue pride. “I don’t think the children are going to care much what the horses’ names are.”

Two seconds later, a pillow hit Toby in the side of the head. 

“You’re no fun, Toby Hamilton,” Theresa said with a pout. She ran her fingers through the mane of the red dun horse, her lips pursed in consideration. “I think Adobe for this one.”

“Adobe?” Toby asked, gracelessly tearing into the cardboard. “What sort of a name is that?”

“I thought you were deferring to my expertise?” Theresa shot back, one perfect brow arched.

“Fine, yes, Adobe. Sounds brilliant.”

“Thank you.” She turned her attention to the bay horse, and another easy smile split her lips. “Oh yes, this one will be Darley.”

Toby paused, half the pieces of the cot pulled from the box and growing into a worryingly complicated pile beside him. “As in Darley Arabian?”

“Yes. Looks just like him, don’t you think?” She flipped the horse around and held it out for his inspection. 

Toby, having never seen a picture of the Darley Arabian and not really keen enough on horses to draw any particular distinctions between them in the first place, nodded and went back to his work. “A dead ringer.”

Given his first in mathematics and his nearly-complete PhD, it really should not have been difficult for Toby to put together a simple cot. Especially not when he had a twelve-page instruction manual with detailed illustrations telling him exactly what to do. He was, much to many people’s surprise, quite good with his hands and more than capable of putting things together in most situations, but twenty minutes into this project, he had managed only to lay the pieces out in order and lose several very important screws and brackets. It was, to say the least, irritating, and as such, he kept up a steady stream of curses that would make his mother blush as he wrestled one of the side rails into place and began attaching it, with little to no confidence that he was doing it right, to the back rail.

Theresa, of course, had been watching as he struggled, popping Hula Hoops in her mouth and enjoying every second of it, not once offering to help but delivering steady moral support in the form of more or less patronising clichés. Anyone else, and he would have gotten tetchy and snapped already, but he was so pleased to have her back to her usual, pestering self that he happily bore the teasing and the warm embarrassment that crept up the back of his neck. Once he actually began to make decent progress on the cot’s construction, though, she grew tired of goading him and returned to idly petting the stuffed horse in her lap.

It was nice, a calm sort of intimacy that Toby had grown surprisingly fond of in the past four months. As much as he had once shivered to think of opening his space to someone else, it was cosy in this moment, sharing the comfortable silence with Theresa, both occupied in their own ways and expecting nothing of the other but the homey knowledge of their presence. Toby even began to think that, perhaps, someday he did want someone to spend his life with in this sort of pressureless companionship, this sort of patient love.

But before long, like a cloud crawling over the sun, the air in the room seemed to turn, grow heavy and dim. Toby felt the change like a shiver over his skin, and he glanced over at Theresa, only to find her already looking back at him. 

A cold shot of panic ran down his spine.

“Is everything o--”

“I’m gay.”

The piece Toby had been fitting into place dropped to the ground with a sharp clatter.

He stared at Theresa, his brain fizzing like an old analogue television without a signal.

Theresa stared right back at him, her eyes wide, her fingertips touched lightly to her lips.

“What?” He asked, lamely, after too long of a pause.

“I’m a lesbian,” Theresa said, blinking, seeming somewhat confused herself.

“Oh.”

Toby slowly placed his screwdriver down and stood, making his way over to the sofa. He’d hardly sat down beside her when Theresa collapsed into him, a sob bursting from her throat as if it had been punched out of her. Wrapping his arms around her, Toby held her silently as she cried, unable to stop himself thinking about the last time he held her like this and how much his world had managed to change in the space between. But as her tears dampened his shirt, Toby knew they were not the same as the one’s she’d cried eight months ago; these were tears of relief, of a weight finally lifted from her exhausted shoulders, of a truth set free and a suffocation at last ended.

After the tears, though, came laughter: delirious, happy laughter. And once Theresa started, Toby couldn’t help the giggles that bubbled up in him, too, even if he didn’t know what was so funny. Eventually, getting herself under control, Theresa sat back, her hands on Toby’s shoulders, and she just looked at him, shaking her head with an irrepressible smile. 

“I can’t believe I’ve just said it like that.” Another breathy hiccup of laughter tumbled from her lips. “I had a whole speech prepared. I was going to tell you after dinner.”

Toby reached up, covering her hand with his own and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Well, either way, I’m glad you told me.” Something strange, almost bitter squirmed in his chest, but he shoved it down hard. Now was not the time. “I’m proud of you, Theresa.”

A slight shine of tears reappeared in Theresa’s eyes, but she fought it back and rolled her eyes for good measure. “You already knew, didn’t you?”

“No, no! Not at all!” He lifted one hand and placed the other over his heart. “Hand to God, I would have never guessed.” 

Theresa rolled her eyes once again but quickly darted in to drop a kiss on his cheek. “I love you, Toby Hamilton.” Her hand found his, twining their fingers together and holding on for dear life. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Of course,” Toby said, his smile softening, gone all sorts of sappy and sentimental. “I love you, too, Theresa Buchanan.” 

She pulled him into a hug, resting her head on his shoulder and letting out a sigh of tremendous relief. “God, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to tell you. It’s been sitting on the tip of my tongue, constantly, for the past eight months. I swear I must have nearly said it a thousand times.”

“Eight months?” Toby asked, though he really knew he shouldn’t. “You mean you’ve known since--”

Theresa stiffened in his arms, then sat back. An uncomfortable frown twisted her lips down even as she waved a flippant hand. “Yes, well, that is how this whole mess started.”

“What do you mean?”

Another sigh, only less relieved and more weary. Theresa shook her head and dropped her eyes, staring down at her hands as she hesitated. “It’s a long story, Toby,” she said, as if those words alone had exhausted her.

“It’s okay,” Toby hurried to assure her. “You don’t have to tell me. I…” He paused, then laid a gentle hand on her knee. “I think I understand.”

Slowly, Theresa lifted her head; she gazed at Toby for a long moment, eyes narrowed and heavy with something that Toby couldn’t identify. He wanted to squirm under her inspection, but he forced himself to keep still and bear it despite the alarm bells ringing in his head. After some time, Theresa’s lips curled up in a thin, sad smile, but it didn’t seem like sadness for herself; it seemed almost like…Like pity.

“Maybe someday,” she said.

\---

Theresa’s water broke at 3:14 in the morning on October 7th.

Thankfully, Toby, always a touch too anxious, had packed a bag with everything they could possibly need for this moment weeks ago and stashed it by the door, ready to go at the drop of a hat. When the time came, it was simply a matter of grabbing his keys, hauling Theresa out the door, bundling her into the car, and speeding off to the hospital.

Upon arriving at John Radcliffe, they’d hardly even reached the front desk before Theresa, huffing and puffing through the contractions, was promptly squashed into a wheelchair by a nurse who was far too bubbly given the early hour. As Theresa was swept off down the hall, Toby could only trot along behind, still not entirely awake despite his racing heart and blinking blearily against the harsh, sterile light; he did appreciate the urgency, but the nurse moved as if he were trying to set a new world record for the hundred-metre sprint, and Toby was rather hampered by his overstuffed bag, which clipped him repeatedly and painfully in the back of the knee as he struggled to keep up.

Once she had been changed into a drab hospital gown, Theresa was placed in a room with a rather bedraggled-looking couple. They glanced up as Theresa and Toby were ushered in, and an immediate flicker of irritation flashed across the woman’s face. She turned away with a huff, her arms crossed atop her stomach, and with a sheepish smile, her husband politely explained that they were entering into hour ten of labour, and Toby and Theresa were the fourth couple to have arrived since they had been waiting.

Theresa gave Toby a look of absolute terror at that, and after pulling the curtain between the cots, he rushed to reassure her. Sat by her bedside, he held her hand as the contractions continued to come and began to worsen, and he felt utterly useless as he could do no more to ease her pain than offer her ice chips and tell her it would all be over soon.

As it was, he was right. 

Just under two hours after they arrived, a team of midwives rushed Theresa back to a private delivery room. Toby, instinctively, followed along, but he baulked at the doorway, watching as they hefted Theresa onto the table and slotted her legs into the stirrups. His squeamish stomach turned at the mere thought of what was to come, but he knew he couldn’t leave Theresa alone. Even if he was bound to be ill. With a deep breath, he entered the room and took his place by Theresa’s side.

It was a blur from there. Everything seemed to happen all at once. It was messy and loud and honestly a bit awful. Theresa was dishevelled in a way that he had never seen her, sweating and swearing the whole way through, and she had squeezed his hand until one of his bones popped, until he nearly fell to his knees from the pain. 

None of that mattered, though. Because the moment Toby saw that first little pink face, screwed up and wailing with a voice far too big to fit in such a small body, he forgot everything else in the world. 

Even all covered in muck, Charlotte was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, more beautiful than any sunset or any flower or any work of art. Just looking at her, he felt his heart crack in half, a piece of it torn from him and taken into her fragile little chest.

Oliver came along ten minutes later, just as beautiful, just as loud, and the remaining half of Toby’s heart was swaddled into the pale blue blanket with him. When the midwife placed the sweet, squirming bundle that was his son in his arms and Charlotte was tucked safely against Theresa’s still heaving chest, Toby didn’t bother trying to hold back his tears; he simply let them pour out because, for once, he was too damn happy to care.

Gently, he stroked a finger down his son’s chubby cheek and along his round chin, unable to believe that it was real, that this precious thing was his child, that he was now a father. Blindly, Oliver reached out with one unimaginably tiny fist and wrapped his stubby fingers around Toby’s, holding on so tight. A harsh sound, something between a laugh and a sob, caught in Toby’s throat, and he knew, then, he would do anything for these children, give anything for them, be everything for them. He would be everything his own father never was. Because he could not imagine ever being so cruel or ever choosing one of them over the other or ever giving either of them even one ounce less than all of his love. Because as he looked down at them, so small and helpless, he understood that his heart would never be his again.

It would be theirs. Entirely. For the rest of his life. Theirs, and theirs alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent so much time stalking Oxford University and various flats/businesses in Oxford that I totally forgot to research what an ultrasound appointment is actually like, what side-effects pregnancy has aside from strange food cravings, and how maternity wards actually work...Oops :/ And the episode of University Challenge I mentioned first aired earlier this month, but let's just pretend it's from six years ago, okay?
> 
> Also...I know everyone was probably wanting to see Toby and Theresa as exes who find out they're expecting after they end things, and I know I probably disappointed y'all quite a bit, but I just...I don't know, I don't always love how emphasis is so often placed on biological familial relationships because like, sometimes your biological family just sucks, ya know? Like, case in point: Lawrence Hamilton. Anyway, yeah, I guess I just want to make a point about how love is a choice that you make and continue to make every day, and blood isn't the end all be all. But still, I understand if you're feeling a little let down and I'm sorry...
> 
> Up next: first meetings are had, and the slow burn begins...


	3. he smiled at me, and gee, the music started playing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, Adil Joshi has arrived! Time for the slow burn to begin! And also, Emma Garland has entered the game! Oh, how I have missed writing these two...
> 
> Also, congratulations, this chapter is _way_ shorter than the last, and hopefully, the rest of the chapters from here out should be of a similar length (between 3-6k). And uh...Huh, not much else to say on this one. Enjoy, I guess?
> 
> Because I am an unrepentant sap...Chapter title is from Darlene Love's "(Today I Met) The Boy I'm Gonna Marry."

The first time Toby’s phone rings, he ignores it. 

He is in the middle of a lecture after all, and if he’s going to insist his students not mess about on their phones while he’s teaching, it’s only fair that he abides by the same rule; best not to be a hypocrite wherever possible. And besides, even if he is already beginning to itch with anxious curiosity, surely whatever it is can wait another hour until his class is over. It’s probably just his mother, calling to gossip about one of the many women she pretends to be friends with.

The second time Toby’s phone rings, less than twenty seconds later, he can’t ignore it. 

He rolls his eyes and puts his chalk down but keeps explaining the very important equation he’s halfway through as he digs into his pocket. When he pulls the buzzing little bastard out and checks the screen, though, he promptly chokes on his words.

It’s Emma.

Emma, calling him on a Friday afternoon. A punch of potent panic hits him straight in the gut, but still, he hesitates with his dusty thumb over the button, frozen by slow-creeping fear as a muffled murmur of confusion rises up at his back. 

The call goes dead before he can decide whether or not to answer, but only a moment later, the screen lights back up. 

Emma, again. 

The fear blooms into full-blown dread.

“I’m sorry,” he says, turning back to his class. “I’m sorry, I have to--” He points uselessly to his phone. “I’ll be right back. Er, take five.”

With little care towards dignity, he scrambles over to the door and throws himself into the hallway. By the time the door softly slams shut behind him, he’s already missed Emma again. _Fuck_. His hands shaking, he redials the number he knows by heart and presses the phone to his ear as he begins to pace the width of the hall. His heart is hammering and his breath is too fast, hardly taking in enough to fill his lungs as his mind spirals into well-practised terror.

Emma answers on the first ring. 

“Toby!” The palpable relief in her voice does nothing to reassure him. “Thank God, I--”

“What is it? What’s happened?” He asks, already imagining the worst. “Are they alright?”

“No, it’s--The twins are fine, it’s not that. Look--” Emma sighs, a wobbly, shallow thing. “I just, I lost track of time, and something’s come up at the hotel, and I can’t get away. I’m so sorry, Toby, I--”

Toby yanks back his sleeve to check his watch. It’s nearly 3:30. The twins get off at 3:15, and Caldecott Primary is thirty minutes away, on a good day.

“Emma, I’ve got to go.”

He doesn’t wait for her reply, simply hangs up, shoves his phone into his pocket, and bursts back into the lecture hall. Rushing over to the lectern, he hastily stuffs his things into his satchel, and after reminding them about their upcoming assignment, he calls off the remainder of the class and heads for the door with one more apology turn thrown over his shoulder; though, he knows none of his students are going to be particularly upset about being dismissed early on a Friday. Back in the hall, he hurries out of the building as quickly as he can without running outright and prays that word of this won’t get back to the board and make them regret prematurely bumping him up to a senior lecturer.

In the end, even with all his speeding on the A34, Toby is still forty-two minutes late to pick up his children. Shame pecks at his stomach as he pulls into the first spot he can find, guilt claws up his spine as he throws the car in park, and a familiar sense of censure hounds him as he dashes through the car park, driving a serrated stake of self-doubt further and further into his chest with every step. 

He knows his children deserve better; they deserve a father who can be there for them, a father who isn’t constantly running around like a chicken with its head lopped off, a father who isn’t always drowning in research and assignments and lectures, a father who doesn’t have to contract a friend to pick them up from school three days out of the week. And he wishes, more than anything, that he could give that to them, but instead, he’s always giving them apologies and praying that his failures won’t stick on them forever. He tries his best, of course he does, but it just never seems to be enough most days, and that knowledge sits like a perpetual, thorny stone in his throat: impossible to ever fully ignore and continually reminding him how selfish it was of him to take them in when he knew he couldn’t give them everything in the world.

His self-loathing grinds to an abrupt halt, though, when he reaches the entrance of the school. In fact, his entire brain seems to shut down for a moment as he stops dead and simply stares at the sight that greets him.

There, on a bench just to the left of the doors, is his daughter. She’s sat beside a man Toby has never seen before. Her face is buried against his arm, her fingers twisted in his sleeve, terribly mangling the fabric of his jumper, and her hair has been freed from the plait Toby had carefully woven it into this morning; a few crimped strands catch and flicker in the weak breeze. The man’s head is ducked as he speaks to her, his lips moving but his voice a gentle murmur too soft for Toby to hear, and he hunches over her, almost protective. He pats Charlie’s hand where it’s clutched around his arm, light and reassuring, but Charlie doesn’t budge. Neither she nor the man seem to have noticed Toby’s arrival. 

As Toby gapes stupidly at the scene in front of him, Ollie comes skipping over to the bench, fresh grass stains dotted on the knees of his charcoal trousers, his collar unbuttoned, and his shirt untucked, its tails flopping out of his bright blue jumper. He has a skimpy bouquet of white clovers clutched in his fist, and he taps the man twice on the knee; obediently, the man pauses whatever he is saying to Charlie and leans down with a patient smile, letting Ollie tuck the clovers into his dark, thick hair which is already adorned with half a dozen of the small flowers.

Something in Toby’s stomach twists unpleasantly at the sight.

As he turns back to the neighbouring patch of grass to collect more clovers, Ollie at last spots him standing there, and his eyes go wide as a sunny smile splits his face. “Daddy!” He calls out, running full-pelt at Toby, his little backpack bouncing up and down and rattling as all his supplies are mercilessly jostled about. 

He gleefully crashes into Toby’s legs hard enough to nearly send both of them toppling to the ground, but Toby manages to keep his feet. All of his trouble melts away for an instant, and with a laugh, he reaches down to ruffle Ollie’s hair as Ollie attempts to squeeze the life out of his thigh. “Hey there, Ollie Pop.”

When he glances back up, the man has stood, holding out a hand to help Charlie down from the bench; Charlie shyly slips her hand into his and drops to the ground, but she keeps her head down, her loose hair hanging in her face and her chin tucked in against her chest. And, just like that, no sooner than the worry had abated, a sharp stab of it barrels back into Toby’s stomach, piercing him through and through.

Frowning, he watches impatiently as the man walks Charlie over, his pace slowed to match her tiny, shuffling steps, and something in his chest cracks when Charlie lets go of the man’s hand to throw herself at Toby’s other leg. 

“Hey, Peanut…” He whispers, patting her head and trying for a smile. He gets only a sombre sniffle and a muted mumble in response as she wraps her arms tighter around him, her face still turned down and away from him. It’s a straight kick in the chest, but he tries again. “Charlotte, darling, what is it?”

Another mumble, and she tugs twice, feebly, on his trousers; Toby hurries to comply. He’s hardly even knelt down before she is falling into his arms, tucking her face in the crook of his neck and jamming her knobby knees into his ribs as he lifts her up. He does what he can to soothe her, whispering quiet reassurance, but it’s difficult when he hasn’t the faintest clue as to why she’s so upset in the first place. And when he has Ollie hanging on his other arm, practically bouncing with excitement.

Somewhat belatedly, Toby realises the man is still there. And he’s watching Toby, head tilted slightly to the side, with an easy smile and a glint of sympathy in his dark eyes. It’s not a look of chastisement or annoyance, but even so, Toby feels his throat go tight as rosy heat creeps up the back of his neck and seeps across his cheeks. Embarrassment—pure and deep and nauseating—pours through every vein in his body. 

What must this man think of him? What sort of father must he seem to be? Arriving in such a state, nearly an hour late as if he’d forgotten his children entirely, unable to give his daughter even an ounce of comfort even as she clings to him. He probably thinks Toby is some negligent deadbeat, some worthless oaf who can’t be trusted to care for himself, let alone two children. Or maybe he sees right through Toby, sees how loosely he’s holding it all together and how ready it is to fall apart. Or maybe he finds Toby as pathetic and lacking as he always feared he is and pities him for it. 

It’s irrational, he knows it is—the man is _smiling_ at him, for God’s sake, he wouldn’t be smiling if he was planning to have Toby done in for criminal negligence and have his kids taken into care—but Toby can’t stop the thoughts anyhow. And though he’s been dead for nearly a decade, his father’s voice still rips through him clearly: _you’re no better than I was._

Gritting his teeth, he shakes the phantom from his head.

“I’m so sorry,” he chokes out past the ruddy mortification trying to squeeze off his airway, not quite able to meet the man’s eyes. He feels terribly faint all of the sudden. “I’m sorry I’m late, Emma got stuck at work, and I--I came as quickly as I could, but I was in the middle of a class and with traffic--”

The man waves a hand and shakes his head, causing one of the clovers to tumble from his hair; Toby’s words die on his tongue. 

“Mr. Hamilton, it’s alright.” 

His voice is warm, curled by the slightest hint of an accent, and a faint touch of amusement colours his words. Toby’s somewhat surprised to hear that the man knows his name; though, he supposes with the way the twins are glued to him and the fact that Ollie had called him daddy, it wouldn’t be too difficult to arrive at the obvious conclusion. 

“It happens to the best of us,” the man continues. “Besides, I didn’t mind waiting with them.” Another smile—a natural, effortless thing—rises on the man’s lips as his eyes flicker between Charlie and Ollie, then back up to Toby.

“Oh, well…” Toby’s clammy fingers itch where they’re trapped in Ollie’s hand, wanting to reach up and adjust his glasses or push back the limp hair that has fallen in his eyes or do anything but merely stand there, looking at this man and being looked at in return. “Thank you,” he hurries to push out before the air between them can grow any stiffer. “Thank you for waiting with them, Mister, er…”

“Joshi,” the man supplies helpfully. He holds out his hand for a shake but realises quite quickly that Toby’s hands are both thoroughly occupied, and he withdrawals with a sheepish chuckle and a ducked smile.

Toby gives him a polite nod in acknowledgement instead. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Joshi.”

 _This is him, then_ , Toby muses to himself as he runs an inquisitive, appraising eye over Mr. Joshi. This is the man his children have been coming home and gushing about for the past two weeks. He’s…Well, he’s not quite what Toby had expected. Of course, Toby hadn’t given it too much thought, but when he had, the picture in his mind had been decidedly middle-aged. Which Mr. Joshi very much is not. Hell, he looks like he could have walked out of university just yesterday. And he’s rather… _trendy_ , for lack of a better word. His flower-studded hair is lush and swept back in an artfully tousled wave, and a short, tidy beard nicely frames his angular jaw. His brows are strong and perfectly defined, drawing attention to his deep, bright eyes that sparkle in the mid-afternoon sun. His jumper is a touch tacky, the pattern a bit garish and colourful in a way that Toby imagines is intended to appeal him to children, but it fits him well, accenting his slender figure, and his sleeves are neatly rolled up, showcasing an eclectic collection of leather bands knotted around his wrist and a thin line of sharp black ink that runs down the inside of his left forearm. 

If you had shown Toby a picture of this man beforehand, he would have guessed he was a model or an actor or something of the sort. Because, objectively speaking, Mr. Joshi is excruciatingly handsome—in the sort of way that leaves Toby immediately jealous and intensely, uncomfortably aware of his own aesthetic shortcomings—and he looks as if he’d be far more comfortable on the cover of GQ than in a primary school classroom. But Toby can’t deny there is also a certain gentle, patient air about him, and the children do seem quite fond of him, so he must be a fairly decent teacher, incongruent appearances aside.

“Mr. Hamilton?”

Abruptly realising that he’s been staring rather rudely, his gaze caught on a smear of dark red paint on the back of Mr. Joshi’s hand, Toby hurries to tear his eyes away; he drops them to the ground only to find Ollie peering curiously back up at him, and strange guilt elbows into his stomach, loud and foul. He swallows the sudden lump in his throat and tries to remember how to breathe, overly aware of the late summer heat slithering in under his collar and spreading across his cheeks. 

Ignoring the heavy thud of his too-fast heartbeat, he offers Mr. Joshi what is meant to be a smile but comes out as a slightly-squashed grimace. “Er, I suppose I ought to get these two home, then. Um, thank you, again.”

“Of course. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Hamilton.” He matches Toby’s mangled expression with a perfect, Hollywood-ready grin of his own. “I’ll see you on Monday, Charlie,” he adds softly; though, Charlie’s still too busy smushing herself against Toby’s shoulder to do anything more than give a twitch of a nod in response. Then, kneeling down, he pulls out the clover that’s tucked behind his ear and hands the small flower to Ollie. “And you, too, Ollie. Keep practising those CVC words, alright?”

Ollie beams back at him, nodding with tremendous gravity as if it were the most important instruction he’d ever been given in his little life, and after a floppy wave goodbye, Toby and the twins at last go on their way. An undue sense of relief barrels over Toby the second they’ve turned away from Mr. Joshi, his lungs expand once more as they’re meant to, and his frantic pulse at last begins to slow as they make their way out to the car. There’s no reason why he should have been so on edge for something as commonplace as meeting his children’s teacher, but Toby’s long since learned better than to try to understand or ascribe reason to the peculiar reactions of his mind and body, and he’s simply glad to have the encounter behind him.

Once they’ve reached the car, he gets the twins buckled up in the backseat. Charlie is initially reluctant to loosen her grip on his coat even a bit, but by the time he comes around and slips into the driver’s seat, she’s bounced right back, as perky as ever. Already chattering away, telling him about how Andy Simmons got a pea lodged in his nose at lunch and had to be sent to the nurse, but even she and her tweezers couldn’t get it out.

Toby listens patiently and nods along, but as he pulls out of the car park, he glances at her in the rearview, slightly disconcerted. It happens on occasion, moments like this: a snap from one end of the spectrum to the other. Distraught one minute and exuberant the next, laughing carefree one minute and steaming with diminutive rage the next. It worries him, but then again, almost everything does. And besides, total emotional constancy is probably a bit much to ask of a nearly-six-year-old.

_Shit._

_Their birthday._

It’s only nineteen days away, and he’s yet to make even a semblance of a plan for a party. Or buy either of them a single gift. He ought to already have it all worked out, down to the last detail, and any other year, he would have, but ever since he’d been promoted to senior lecturer, he’s just been too busy to even think a day in advance. Of course, he had lobbied for the promotion, and the pay raise is nothing to sneeze at, but well, that doesn’t make it any easier to keep up. He’s going to run himself ragged soon enough, doing it all on his own, but he’ll manage. He always has.

\---

“Honey, I’m home!”

Toby rolls his eyes, laughing softly to himself, and sets down the dish brush. Shaking the water and suds from his hands, he pulls his glasses down from where he’s been using them as a makeshift headband and peeks out into the living room. 

Emma has barely had the time to put down her bag before the twins have swarmed her, jumping up and down excitedly and tugging at her hands, pulling her towards the coffee table that’s covered in a hurricane of crayons and construction paper. Once she’s squished on the sofa between them, Ollie thrusts a piece of lemon yellow paper at her, which she accepts with great care. She marvels studiously at whatever it is he has drawn, twisting the paper this way and that to get a full look at it. But Charlie soon decides enough’s enough and shoves her masterpiece into Emma’s hands instead, and Emma again oohs and aahs with appropriate sincerity. 

She’s putting up a hell of a front, but Toby can see the exhaustion hanging in her heavy eyes, the stress that has left her just a touch too stiff. Her smile for the twins, though, is genuine and light as a feather.

Still, he tells her, “You didn’t have to come, Em.”

She scoffs. “As if I would ever pass up an opportunity to see my _adorable_ little niece and nephew.” Her smile grows as she wraps her arms around Charlie and Ollie, pulling them into her, tickling their ribs as they giggle and squirm. “What sort of an aunt would that make me?”

“An aunt who has a very difficult job and knows how to take time for herself when she needs it?” Toby suggests, walking behind the sofa and over to the hook by the door.

“Oh, isn’t that rich?” Emma twists around, hooking an arm around the back of the sofa to hit him with an incredulous smirk; though, it’s more teasing than damning. “The pot calling the kettle black.”

Pulling down coats for Charlie, Ollie, and himself, Toby elects to elegantly sidestep that well-trod can of worms. “Charlie, Ollie, ready to go?”

The twins are up in a flash, charging over and throwing themselves to the ground to shove their shoes on. Charlie gets her laces done up first and proudly kicks her little red trainer up at Toby so he can observe the perfectly even knot she’s tied. She had, at last, graduated from velcro and learned to tie her laces nearly three months ago, but she’s still tickled by her newfound ability every time, and well, there’s no reason Toby can’t indulge her pride. So, he ducks down—dropping a kiss to her forehead and ruffling her hair—and tells what a good job she’s done.

He wrestles Charlie into her coat while Emma helps Ollie with his, and then they’re off. Charlie, ever impatient, skips out ahead of them on the pavement and taunts them for their slowness. Ollie, though, stays locked between Toby and Emma, tugging on their hands until they acquiesce and lift him up, swinging him forward as he kicks his legs up and out, squealing with delight.

“I’m sorry, by the way,” Emma says, her voice slightly strained by the effort of hoisting up a forty-pound child over and over again. “There was this awful guest. He accused one of the staff of stealing from him, and we had to make a show of searching everyone’s lockers and--”

Toby shakes his head. “Emma, don’t. You don’t have to apologise, okay?” Emma starts to protest, but he hurries on before she can get a word out. “You do too much to help me and the twins. It’s alright that you had to call off _one_ time. Besides, everything was fine in the end. I wasn’t terribly late, and the twins were…” Toby’s mind drifts back to Mr. Joshi, waiting on the bench with Charlie while Ollie threaded flowers through his hair, to the knee-jerk jealousy that had taken hold of his stomach, seeing his children so comfortable around a man who was no more to him than a stranger. “The twins were in good hands, anyhow.”

With obvious reluctance, Emma accepts the pardon from her guilt, and once Ollie has grown tired of them and dropped their hands to catch up with his sister, she finishes telling Toby about the hellish guest who had turned the entire hotel upside down with his entitled rage. By the time they reach the park several minutes later, she has purged the entire story, with a surprising number of expletives tossed in, and the pale cloud of stress that had been sitting over her has dispersed somewhat; as she and Toby take up on the nearest bench to watch the twins as they sprint around the play area, her smile even begins to peek out, unencumbered once more.

“So,” she starts, her tone already telling Toby loud and clear that he isn’t going to like what she says next. “Have you given it any more thought?”

_Wonderful, this again._

He barely refrains from rolling his eyes. “No, Emma, I haven’t, because when I said ‘not in a million years’, I meant _not in a million years_.”

“Oh, come on, Toby.” She turns toward him, hitting him with the most potent, compelling glare she has. “You can’t sit around forever and hope the right woman will just fall in your lap.” Toby does roll his eyes now, embarrassment wriggling in his stomach, but Emma continues on, undeterred. “And online dating isn’t just for sad, lonely, desperate people, okay? Lots of people do it these days, and lots of them end up finding someone. I don’t see why you won’t just set up a profile and--”

“Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, I really do, but I--” He shakes his head and sighs. “I’m just not interested.”

“But how do you know that if you won’t even try it?”

Already itching to run as far as he can from this conversation, Toby merely shrugs. “I don’t know. I suppose in the same way that I know that I’m not interested in being set on fire.”

“Oh, for God’s sake--” 

Laughing in spite of her obvious frustration, she gives him a half-hearted shove that still manages to nearly topple him from the bench before he regains his balance. They fall silent for a moment—their eyes following the twins as they pinball senselessly from the slide to the swings to the monkey bars and back—but Toby knows Emma too well to think for even a second that the matter is anywhere near being closed. And right on cue-- 

“Really, though, Toby. It’s at least worth a shot, isn’t it?” Her voice has gone soft and earnest in a way that forces him to know she only means well, which makes it rather difficult to be annoyed with her. “If you don’t like it, you give it up. No harm, no foul. You have to admit, the potential benefits far outweigh the potential cost.”

Toby bites his lip, fiddling with the button on his coat, tweaking it back and forth though he knows, by doing so, he’s only ensuring that the button will all the sooner come loose and fall off. He can feel Emma looking at him, waiting for his response, waiting for his argument, the same one he’s given her a dozen times before, but…He’s tired of hashing this out, month after month. He might as well just tell her the truth and have done with it, once and for all.

“I just don’t think I’m meant for it, okay?” He says, soft enough that he can hope it will get caught and lost in the wind.

“Meant for what?”

He shrugs again, crossing his arms across his chest as he slumps back against the bench. “Dating, romance, love, any of it.”

Emma is quiet for a long moment, and he doesn’t have to see her frown to know it’s there. “You do realise how ridiculous that is, yes? I think that might actually be _the_ most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said, which is quite a high bar to beat, you know.”

“It’s the truth, Emma.”

“No, it’s not, and you should know better by now than to try to lie to me.”

He keeps his eyes on the twins and twists his button far enough that he feels one of the tiny threads holding it in place snap. Because she’s right. Of course she’s right; she always is. He loves his children, dearly, and he could happily spend his life with only their company, but he can’t deny that he craves a companion, too. Someone to share his life and happiness and sorrow and everything with. Someone he can turn to with a smile and shake his head when the twins are being absurd or delightful or adorable or all three at once. Someone who can hold his hand and walk with him through the minefield of parenthood. And he can’t deny that, sometimes, he craves it so much that his ribs seem ready to snap under the weight of his placeless longing.

“It doesn’t matter either way,” he says instead. “What I want doesn’t matter. The twins have to come first. In everything.”

Emma regards him with tar-thick pity that oozes sickly across his skin, and he has to dig his nails into the heel of his palm to keep from squirming with discomfort. “Toby, you can’t live like that, always putting yourself second. Believe me, my father tried it.”

“Yes, and look how well you turned out,” he says, gesturing to her general, admirable existence. “Isn’t that all that matters in the end?”

“No, Toby.” Her fingers catch his, pulling them away from their fretting and slipping easily in between them, their palms pressed together, a small touch of warmth in the cooling September air. “You’re here to give Charlie and Ollie a happy childhood, but that doesn’t mean you have to give up your own happiness to do it.”

He scoffs, choking down the discomfort inching up his throat. “And what? Starting a Tinder profile is what’s going to make me happy?”

“Firstly, I’m shocked you even know what Tinder is,” Emma says, a hint of a smirk playing on her lips before they promptly drop back into a hard line of solemnity once more. “Secondly, it’d at least be a start.”

Frowning, Toby turns, at last, to look at her again. “You say ‘start’ as if I’m not already perfectly happy as is. Which I am. I have the twins, you, Freddie, Mother, Theresa: there’s nothing more I need.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t want more,” Emma parries back, always one rhetorical step ahead of him, ever her father’s daughter.

Shaking his head, Toby throws his eyes back out to the twins, who are now taking turns to attempt to make each other ill on the rusty old roundabout. “And what if I did set up a profile? It’s not like I’d suddenly be inundated with w--” A little tickle itches up his windpipe, and he clears his throat. “Willing applicants. I mean, for God’s sake, I’m a nearly-thirty maths professor with five-year-old twins and a probable anxiety disorder. I may as well be relationship kryptonite.”

“You are more than your job and your children, Toby.” She tugs on his hand until he meets her eyes once more. “You are an intelligent, charming, handsome man--”

Again, Toby scoffs as his cheeks burn against the chilled air, his blush returning full-force.

“ _And_ ,” Emma continues pointedly. “Any woman would be lucky to have you, alright?”

The mere suggestion makes him feel as if there’s some disgusting slimy slug slithering around in his guts, but he can’t even begin to put a solid finger on why, so he merely forces a smile and gives her a mock salute. “Whatever you say, Ms. Garland.”

Satisfied for now, she gives him a slightly smug smile and scooches closer to rest her head on his shoulder, their entwined hands squashed in the scant space between them, safe from the chap of the wind. The silence that falls over them now is a far more comfortable one, but Toby’s mind refuses to allow him to enjoy it. Because, peculiar as it is, his thoughts have turned back to Mr. Joshi again, to the delicate flowers in his hair and the way Charlie had clung to him like a lifeline. Perhaps it is merely Emma’s head on his shoulder that has reminded him, but a sudden, odd curiosity gnaws at him, begging to trip off his tongue.

“Have you met Mr. Joshi?” He blurts inelegantly; immediately, his face goes red-hot, all the way up to the tips of his ears.

Emma lifts her head, blinking at him in reasonable confusion. “Mr. Joshi? Where did that come from?”

Toby doesn’t have an adequate answer for that question, so he shrugs as casually as he can and says, “I met him for the first time today.”

“Okay, and?”

“And…I don’t know.” With his free hand, he picks at a small snag he’s just noticed in his trousers, and he dutifully ignores the panicked thump of his heart. “I suppose I was just wondering if you knew anything about him,” he says, keeping his voice carefully light.

“Well, it’s not as if I’m friends with him,” Emma says with a flippant wave, clearly still a bit befuddled. “I’ve only briefly spoken to him a handful of times when I came to pick up the twins. He seems like a rather nice man, though. Why do you ask?”

“Just…Curious. He seemed awfully…” Toby bites his lip. A surprising number of words spring to mind to describe the man he met today, but he wouldn’t dare say half of them. “Young,” he settles on at last; though, it’s rather hypocritical of him, as if he himself is not also awfully young to hold the position he does and is not also regularly met with similar, irritating incredulity.

“I know it’s useless telling you not to worry, but I’m sure Mr. Joshi is a perfectly good teacher.” She tucks an errant strand of hair back behind her ear and adds, “He wouldn’t have been hired if he weren’t qualified.”

“It’s not that. Charlie and Ollie rave about him all the time, I know he must be good at his job. It’s just--” Frustrated, he cuts himself off, shaking his head. It’s useless. If he can’t even explain it to himself, how could he possibly explain it to Emma?

“Just what?”

“I’m not sure. That’s the problem. Something about him…I don’t know, he just made me feel…odd.” He realises how preposterous it sounds the second the words are out of his mouth, but it’s the truth. Or as close to the truth as he seems to be capable of getting at the moment. He can’t even imagine where to begin unravelling the bizarre knot of embarrassment and jealousy that meeting Mr. Joshi had put in his chest.

“At the risk of sounding patronising, I think you may just be over-analysing again, Toby.” Her eyes offer him a touch of time-softened chiding along with her sympathy. “Remember last year when you wanted to have the twins pulled from Mrs. Carr’s class because she ‘let’ Ollie get stung by a bee?”

“Yeah…Yeah, you’re probably right. I just--” Toby’s shoulders drop in defeat, and he lets out a slow breath. “I worry about them…I just want what’s best for them.”

“I know you do.” Emma reaches up, a terribly tender smile on her face as she brushes his hair away from his eyes and straightens his glasses. “And that’s what makes you a good father, Toby Hamilton.”

Once Toby’s given her a small, cautious smile in return, she lays her head back on Toby’s shoulder; after a moment, he allows himself to rest his cheek against her rose-scented hair, and they sit bent together, as they so often did as children, watching Charlie and Ollie laugh as they chase each other in senseless circles, carefree in the last golden shreds of the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On god, I know Charlie Brown isn't like that much of a Thing in the UK so it doesn't make sense that Toby would think to call Charlie "peanut," but listen...I spent three weeks trying to come up with something to go with Ollie Pop, and this was the best my poor bedraggled brain could do, okay? And believe me, I had worse options in mind, so at least I chose the lesser of the mediocre evils.
> 
> Also, I hope Adil's intro was worth the wait, even if it was brief.
> 
> Up next: Toby attempts to make a good second impression, and he might just make some new friends, too!


	4. even when you're lonely, know you're not alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: [slaps this fic] "This bad boy can fit so many friendships in it." So, at long last, the rest of those relationship tags are gonna start to make sense. Folks, please welcome to the stage, Sonny Sullivan, Betsey Day, and Joe O'Hara!
> 
> Uh, apologies for this update taking so long to arrive; I had a massive bout of writer's block in the first half, so...Yeah. Also, I am so so so sorry that I am once again posting a massive chapter after I promised to keep them brief; I just literally can't help myself with this AU, I guess. Next chapter...Well, let's all just cross our fingers.
> 
> Chapter title from "One of Us" by New Politics.

By the time Emma knocks on his door, Toby has tried on and rejected five different suits. He’s being absolutely ridiculous, and he knows it, but everything looks wrong. This suit is too old; that suit is too baggy; this suit is too grey; that suit is too plaid. He’s never cared so much about his appearance, never put more than a cursory thought into his clothing, but tonight, with this meeting looming ever closer, he can’t help but fuss.

He’s glowering at himself in the mirror, tugging apart another crooked half-windsor, when Emma grows impatient waiting for an answer and simply barges in. “You’ve been in here for nearly half an hour, Toby, when are you--” She stalls when he catches sight of him, and a small frown tugs down her lips. “You alright?”

Toby rips the limp red tie from his collar and lets it fall to the floor. “I don’t know what to wear.”

Emma’s eyes flicker over the piles of discarded clothes lumped around the room. “Yeah, I can see that. Why does it matter exactly?” She asks, dropping herself down on his bed and meeting his eyes in the mirror, one too-perceptive brow raised.

“Because, Emma…” Already his cheeks feel aflame, and he drops his eyes to focus on the buttons of his waistcoat. “The first time I met this man, I was nearly an hour late to pick up my children. I need to make a good second impression so he doesn’t call social services on me.”

“Toby, come on. Don’t be so morbid.” She picks idly through the now-wrinkled shirts and trousers that have been carelessly tossed atop the bed, her lips pursed as she carefully considers each one in turn. “I mean, you met the man, right? Did he honestly seem like the type to write you off as a bad father just because you were late one time?”

No, he hadn’t seemed like that type at all, but that doesn’t do anything to assuage Toby’s nerves. In the outright mess that his life has become, he had completely forgotten this conference until his phone had reminded him of it this morning with a cheery chirp, and he hasn’t been able to shake the jittery apprehension all day. It’s been nought but five days since Toby had made a fool of himself in front of Mr. Joshi, and he feels damn near feverish at the prospect of facing the man again: a layer of woozy nausea smeared from his stomach up the back of his neck and all the way to the tips of his ears; a pall of clammy, bashful heat glued to his skin; his heartbeat pushed too fast and fragile. It may as well be the most important night of his entire life for all his body seems to be concerned.

He wrestles off the unacceptable waistcoat, but before he can turn back to the wardrobe and begin hunting for another suit, Emma steps in front of him.

“You’re going to be late again if you keep on like this, you know,” she points out quite unhelpfully. Toby gives her as bold a glare as he dares, but she merely rolls her eyes. “Look,” she says, taking him by the shoulders. “You’re going in to talk to your children’s teacher about their progress, not walking the runway at Fashion Week, okay? You don’t need to worry this much, and you definitely don’t need to wear a three-piece suit.”

“Well, what should I wear, then?” He tries to keep his frustration and growing desperation from leaking into his voice, but the effort is in vain.

Emma only shrugs. “Something normal.” 

Releasing him, she steps back and bends over to pluck a plain white oxford from the floor. She inspects it for a moment, then nods approvingly and sets about smoothing the wrinkles out of it.

“Care to elaborate?” He asks when it becomes quite obvious that no further explanation is forthcoming.

Either having not heard the question or having chosen to ignore it, Emma moves back to the bed and carefully extracts a pair of trousers from beneath the small mountain of clothes he has built up. Once she has efficiently smacked the creases out of them as well, she folds them delicately over her arm and sweeps back over to the wardrobe. There, she digs around with little regard for his privacy until, at last, she finds whatever it is she’s looking for. 

Toby can’t help but scoff when he sees what’s in her hands. “No. Absolutely not.”

“What?” Emma asks, brows furrowed as she peers down at the atrocious, fair isle jumper, then looks back up to him. “What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong with--Just look at it!” He flops a hand out at the vile olive-green mess. “It’s hideous and tacky, Emma.”

“It was in your wardrobe,” she retorts smartly.

“Yes,” Toby concedes with huff. “Because my mother bought it for me, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her how truly awful it is.”

“It is not _awful_ , it’s…” She pauses, holding it up in front of her to study it. “Professorial. And besides…” She reaches up to give his cheek a playful little pinch. “It’ll bring out your eyes.”

“I don’t need my eyes brought out,” he mutters even as he readily accepts the bundle of clothes she shoves at him. “I need to look respectable.”

“You will. Just trust me.” With a smile that is far left of reassuring, she pats his arm and nudges him towards the en suite. “Now, hurry up and get changed. It’s already nearly a quarter ‘till.”

Reluctantly, Toby obeys. He knows better than to fight Emma on something like this, and well, he really does need to get going; the school may only be a five-minute drive away, but he’d rather not cut it too close. His socks slipping on the slick tile floor, he hastily shimmies out of his trousers and into the pair Emma has chosen; they’re practically the same as what he’d already been wearing, only a shade or two darker. As he unbuttons his shirt, a peel of laughter, like the toll of a silver bell, echoes up from the floor below, followed by the poorly-imitated whirr of a plane propeller.

Toby’s eyes flick to the door, cracked just enough that he can hear the muffled shuffle of Emma collecting his vestiary disaster and returning what she can to their proper places. 

“Are you going to be alright?” He asks before he’s entirely sure that he ought to.

The shuffle pauses. “What do you mean?”

Well, he’s in for the penny, may as well go in for the pound. “You know…With Freddie.”

His words are met with an absolute silence; immediate, censorious regret crawls up his throat, and his hands shake as he does up the buttons on his Emma-approved shirt.

“Why wouldn’t I be alright with him?” Emma says finally, just a touch too calm and level to be convincing.

Toby shrugs, though he knows Emma can’t see it, and with some trepidation, he reaches for the jumper. “Well, you two haven’t exactly spent a lot of time alone since you ended things and moved up here to take that job at The Randolph.”

“We ended things on good terms, and Freddie understood why I had to leave,” Emma says, growing slightly defensive, as she always does when her controversial departure from The Halcyon is brought up. “Anyway, we’re both adults. I think we can handle being in the same room for an hour or so.”

“Fair enough.” Toby leans closer to the mirror, running his fingers through his hair and fiddling with the irritating curls that stubbornly refuse to lay right. “I just--I would have told you he was going to be here, but he just dropped in with no warning, and the twins were so excited to see him, and--” He flips on the tap and wets his fingers to smooth down a few of the more prominent flyaways. “Well, I couldn’t exactly tell him he can’t spend time with his niece and nephew when he hasn’t seen them in nearly six months, but I don’t entirely trust him with them on his own.”

As if to prove Toby’s apprehensions well-founded, there is a suspiciously loud thump from downstairs, followed by muffled titters from his children. Closing his eyes, Toby pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath before inspecting himself in the mirror and futilely attempting to straighten out his hair one last time.

“Toby, it’s fine, I’m fine. I don’t mind. Honestly. Now…” Without warning, Emma pushes the door open, and though, he’s fully dressed, Toby still instinctively moves to protect his modesty. Emma scoffs. “Oh, come on. As if I haven’t already seen it all before anyhow.”

Toby can only stare at her, bewildered. “You absolutely have not!”

“I’ve seen Freddie, and you two _are_ twins after all, so…” She waves a flippant hand towards Toby’s body. “As good as.”

“Oh, for God’s sake--”

“For God’s sake is right. Quit fussing, and let’s go already,” Emma says, even as she reaches up to refluff Toby’s hair. Once she’s apparently satisfied with his hair, she takes his arms, one after the other, and rolls his cuffs with clean precision. Then, finally, she hands him his glasses and marches him out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

When they reach the bottom of the stairs, Freddie and the twins have already managed to set to rights whatever it was they had knocked over to create the ominous thump Toby had heard earlier. Currently, Freddie is stationed on the floor, sitting cross-legged beside the coffee table; Ollie is affixing various glittery stickers to Freddie’s face, pausing to prudently consider each one before placing it; and Charlie is sat on the sofa, a litter of half-finished drawings scattered around her, her little pink tongue caught between her teeth and her feet kicking lazily back and forth as she sets to work on scribbling out another masterpiece.

Toby smiles at the homey tableau before him, but his smile swiftly disappears when Freddie glances up, his face scrunched with confusion as he asks, “What on Earth are you wearing?”

Before Toby can even think to snipe back, Emma throws Freddie a withering stink-eye. “Shut up,” she says, stepping in front of Toby and brushing off his shoulders. She glances up, and when Toby tentatively meets her eye, she gives him a wink and a gentle smirk. “He looks nice.”

Freddie holds his hands up in surrender with his own polished, diplomat grin. “Only joking.”

“Very funny,” Toby mutters. He makes his way over to drop a kiss on Ollie’s head, then leans over the sofa to do the same for Charlie, though she hardly looks up from her colouring long enough to acknowledge him. “I won’t be gone long. I have to stop by Tesco afterwards, but I should be back a quarter after seven at the latest,” he tells Emma and Freddie. “Remember, they’ll need dinner by sixty-thirty, and Ollie has decided that he doesn’t like carrots anymore, so don’t give him any because he’ll just hide them under the table. Charlie’s not allowed within five feet of a pair of scissors after she cut all the hair off of Ollie’s dolls last week. What else, uh…If you’re going to have the television on, please make it something at least vaguely appropriate, and--”

“We know, we know,” Emma says, rolling her eyes. She gets behind Toby and plants both hands on his back to push him towards the door. “Get out of here before you end up late again.”

With one last goodbye to Charlie and Ollie, Toby steps out the door and is promptly devoured once more by his anxiety. The drive to the school is only a handful of minutes, but he spends the entire time drumming his restless fingers on the steering wheel and sneaking glances at his reflection in the rearview. Whatever work Emma might have done to fix his hair, he has completely undone it by the time he reaches the front entrance of the school, unable to stop himself from fretting at his fringe, even if only to keep his clammy hands busy.

Nonetheless, he strides purposefully into the building, and after checking the room number he’d scribbled down on his hand and consulting the helpful map tacked up just inside the doors, he sets off on his way. His steps echo, loud and jarring, as he makes his way through the halls, and already his stomach has begun to tie itself in wicked knots once more. He keeps his eyes glued to the small, numbered plaques posted alongside every door and determinedly ignores the senseless fear itching to dig into his guts. 

Unfortunately, though, he arrives at Room 008 in almost no time at all.

A quick glance at his watch tells him he has only two minutes to spare, but still, he hesitates outside the door. His heart feels like an egg from which a frantic, merciless bird is trying to hatch. Closing his eyes, he places a hand on his stomach and takes a breath: four count in, four count hold, four count out. Rinse and repeat. 

It doesn’t help.

He knocks and turns the doorknob anyway.

The room is an unmitigated riot of color. Everywhere Toby looks there are reds and greens and blues and oranges and purples and yellows. The white walls are thoroughly concealed by a curated collection of cheerful posters and dozens of messy paintings signed in clumsy, blocky letters, much like the ones Charlie and Ollie have been bringing home for the past four weeks. The cupboards that run along the back of the room are cut into neat, colour-coded segments, pastel streamers twirl down from the ceiling, and a string of rainbow bunting runs across each of the lime-green-curtained windows. There’s barely a neutral surface in the place but for the dull grey carpet, and even that is partially hidden beneath bright, patterned rugs. He can feel a headache coming on just looking at it all, but there is something childish in him that is quietly delighted by the technicolour explosion.

“Ah, Mr. Hamilton.”

Toby turns, and his breath is immediately knocked straight out of his chest. He watches, dumb and frozen, as Mr. Joshi stands from his desk and approaches him. There’s a sunny smile sat on his lips, and he has a friendly hand held out before him, but Toby may as well be facing down his own executioner for the way his heart is beating double time. 

“Mr. Joshi,” he answers, sounding like a complete, dazed buffoon. After discreetly wiping his palm on his trousers, he takes Mr. Joshi’s outstretched hand with some trepidation; again, there’s a spot of paint smudged down his thumb, royal blue this time, and the moment their fingers brush, the very same embarrassment from their last meeting rises beneath Toby’s skin, a balmy, queasy itch from his head to toes; though, he’s not entirely sure what he has to be embarrassed about now. Probably this _ridiculous_ outfit Emma’s put him in. He should have known better than to let her talk him into it because Mr. Joshi looks, once again, utterly immaculate, even more maddeningly handsome than Toby remembered; his jumper fits him as if it were made for him, and it looks so terribly, temptingly soft; the wine-red colour is quite becoming on him, and he seems to glow with warmth even under the unflattering fluorescent lights. Toby must look like a bloody troll in comparison. At least, he certainly feels like one.

“You’re right on time.”

There’s a hint of teasing behind the words if Toby’s not mistaken, and his blush ticks up another few scalding degrees. It’s only when he tries to reach up to futilely adjust his glasses that he realises he’s still holding Mr. Joshi’s hand, and he quickly pulls away, shoving his hand into his pocket and mentally chiding himself for being so painfully and blatantly awkward. This was meant to be his chance to change Mr. Joshi’s poor impression of him, and already he’s completely blowing it. 

“Yes, well…” He dredges up a smile, but it’s a thin, shy thing. “I thought I’d mix it up a bit, keep you on your toes.” 

Toby cringes at the pathetic joke as soon he’s made it, but Mr. Joshi indulges him with a quiet laugh anyhow; for a moment, Toby’s smile slips into something a bit more genuine, but only for a moment. Because then Mr. Joshi steps away, moving back towards his desk, and the nerves descend upon Toby once more. 

“Well, I guess we ought to get started, then. Please…” Mr. Joshi gestures toward one of the only two normal-sized chairs in the entire room. “Have a seat, Mr. Hamilton.”

“Oh, Toby,” he says, hurrying to comply. “You, um, you can call me Toby. I mean, if you like.” He barely resists the urge to smack himself as he takes the seat across from Mr. Joshi. “Er, or not. Either is fine, I suppose. Whatever you prefer.”

When Toby finally manages to shut his stupid mouth, Mr. Joshi gives him a look that seems to be equal parts bemused and amused, but thankfully, he chooses not to comment and only gives Toby another small, lenient grin. Toby tries not to squirm under his gaze, his fidgety hands pressed together and squashed between his knees, but his orchestrated calm is completely undone by Mr. Joshi’s next question.

“Will your partner not be joining us?”

Toby merely blinks at him, brows furrowed, then glances down at his very much ringless left hand before asking, “My partner?”

“Ms. Garland,” Mr. Joshi clarifies, seemingly as confused as Toby is.

“Oh!” Quiet mortification floods through Toby, and he stumbles over his words as he rushes to correct Mr. Joshi. “No, no. God no. Emma isn’t--I mean, we, we’re not--” He cuts himself off, takes a breath, and tries again, a touch more composed. “I’m not with Emma. I’m not with anyone. It’s, uh…It’s just me.”

“I apologise, Mr. Hamilton, I shouldn’t have assumed--”

“No, no. It’s alright,” Toby says, waving the apology off even as he still burns with embarrassment. “I can see how you would’ve come to that conclusion. But, um, Emma is a friend, a very good friend who is doing me a massive favour. You see, there was a mix-up at the university, they scheduled one of my classes from two-thirty to four-thirty, and by the time anyone realised the mistake, there were already so many students signed on, they told me nothing could be done.”

“You’re a professor, then?”

There is a definite spark of interest in Mr. Joshi’s eyes, and all at once, Toby realises this is it; this is his in with Mr. Joshi, the patch of common ground between them: they’re both teachers. And even if primary and university are two entirely different worlds, there’s at least some correlation, perhaps enough that their similarities may invite Mr. Joshi’s sympathies and buoy his opinion of Toby. 

“Well, a senior lecturer technically. Slowly working my way up, emphasis on slowly. But, yes, I teach mathematics at Oxford.” He does his best not to sound too vain, but it’s still so horribly pretentious, throwing around the university’s name as if its prestigious reputation could stand in for his own. “Statistics and probability,” he finishes meekly. “That sort of thing.”

Toby expects some unconvincing show of hollow admiration or clearly forced curiosity—as is almost always the reaction he receives when he mentions his admittedly-dull field of study—but Mr. Joshi only shakes his head, tsking in solemn disappointment as he turns his eyes away from Toby, as if in haughty disgust; though, his otherwise credible performance is somewhat undercut by the cheeky smile he’s not quite able to smother.

A similar, slight smile rises on Toby’s lips. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just…” Mr. Joshi shakes his head again, opening one of his desk drawers and pulling out two folders. He lays them carefully, precisely on the desktop before meeting Toby’s eyes once more with a modest shrug. “I’m a Cambridge man myself.”

“Oh…” Fighting back the urge to grin like a fool, Toby taps into the smug sense of superiority that is silver-spoon fed to every child of titled parents and gives Mr. Joshi a frown that is just the right mix of pitying and condescending. “How unfortunate for you.”

Thankfully, Mr. Joshi laughs as Toby had hoped he would, and Toby’s heart stumbles in his chest at the sound; though, oddly enough, he feels quite pleased with himself, unable to keep the smile off his face any longer. Mr. Joshi’s warm, dark eyes shine with amusement, and Toby is so busy trying to decide exactly which shade of brown they are that he nearly misses what Mr. Joshi says next. 

“Lucky for my parents, my brother and sister both chose Oxford, so it wasn’t a total loss.”

His curiosity piqued but nowhere near satisfied, Toby carefully tucks that knowledge away and asks, “What made you choose Cambridge, then? A simple desire to be contrary?”

“A bit of that, yes,” Mr. Joshi admits with a hint of a smirk. “But, in the end, it really boiled down to the fact that Oxford doesn’t offer education as an undergraduate course of study.” He shrugs. “And afterwards, it just made sense to stay at Cambridge to complete my masters.”

“Oh…” Toby pretends to think about it for a moment, then gracefully concedes. “Well, I suppose in that case you can be forgiven.”

That earns him another laugh, and Toby swells with quiet pride. At last, the nerves are beginning to slip away from him, leaving a small but growing sense of ease in their place, as if Mr. Joshi is an old friend he is merely rediscovering. It must be a symptom of being a primary teacher, Toby supposes, having such an amiable, comfortable disposition. Or perhaps it’s the other way around.

But after a moment, Mr. Joshi quashes his smile and clears his throat, turning his attention back to the folders in front of him. “Right, well, you’re probably keen to get on with what you actually came in for.”

A shred of disappointment pierces Toby’s stomach. Nonetheless, he agrees promptly and politely.

“I’m sure you already know all this,” Mr. Joshi continues. “But this meeting is just an opportunity to check in, for me to let you know how Charlie and Ollie are settling in, where they’re excelling, where they may need a bit more practice. But I want this to be a conversation, not a one-sided monologue, so any questions you have, I’d be more than happy to answer them.”

Pushing his glasses back up and smoothing a crease from his jumper, Toby sits up a bit straighter and nods. As much as he may be recovering from his initial panic, he can’t pretend that he’s not nervous to hear what Mr. Joshi has to say. It is a rather stressful experience: sitting down in front of a virtual stranger to hear them pass judgment on your children and, by extension, you and your parenting.

As Mr. Joshi flips open the folders—one red, one purple—Toby wonders idly if he had asked Charlie and Ollie about their favourite colours or if he had simply guessed correctly. He can’t claim to know a great deal about the man, but it does seem like the sort of minor detail he would take care to get right.

“To be honest, Mr. Hamilton, there’s not much I have to say about Charlie and Ollie.”

Toby frowns. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“A good thing,” Mr. Joshi assures him. “I’m quite happy with their progress so far. They’re both excellent students, very bright, very quick learners, very _eager_ learners. It would seem the apples haven’t fallen far from the tree.” The compliment leaves Toby coated in a rosy blush, but Mr. Joshi hurries on before Toby can even stumble through a bashful thank you, which is probably for the best. “Here, you can see some of Ollie’s work--” 

He extracts a paper from the purple folder and passes it across the desk to Toby. As he reaches to take the paper, Toby’s eyes catch on the dark line of ink that runs along Mr. Joshi’s forearm. He is struck with a strange desire to run his finger along the mark and see if it comes away black, to trace the lines and ask if it had hurt. The linework is sharp and precise, standing out boldly against Mr. Joshi’s golden skin as if the ink had just been stamped moments ago, and yet there is still softness in the gentle, careful curves and flourishes of the characters. Toby knows enough to recognise that characters are Hindi, but he hasn’t even half a clue as to what they might say, though he finds himself dreadfully curious to know. 

Luckily, this time, he manages to tear his gaze away before Mr. Joshi can notice his indelicate ogling, and he tunes back into Mr. Joshi’s explanation just in time to hear what exactly the paper in his hands is. They continue on like that for some time: passing papers across the desk as Mr. Joshi goes over everything the twins have been learning in the past month and leafing through a series of worksheets and mostly indecipherable paintings that will soon be taped up on Toby’s cluttered office walls. Mr. Joshi has nothing but praise for Charlie and Ollie, and Toby glows with relief and pride.

That is, until Mr. Joshi hands over Charlie and Ollie’s reports.

Toby’s fingers brush ever so slightly against Mr. Joshi’s as he accepts the papers, but he ignores the odd shock that the brief touch sends through him and focuses instead on his children’s reports; though they’re not true reports, only simple charts with the learning goals listed down one side and a basic rating system scrawled across the top. Ollie’s shows a neat, faultless line of fours in every category. Toby flips to Charlie’s. Hers, too, shows a neat, faultless line of fours in every category except--

“What’s this?” He asks, spinning the report back to face Mr. Joshi and pointing to the single, scathing two on Charlie’s report.

Mr. Joshi gives him a sheepish smile. “Yes, that is something I wanted to speak to you about.” The words are hesitant as if he’s already expecting a blow-up. He pauses for a moment, folding his hands atop the desk as he searches for the most tactful way to speak his mind. “Academically, Charlie is an ideal student,” he says, ostensibly to placate Toby and cushion the bomb that he is about to drop on him. “But I have noticed that she seems to be…struggling a bit when it comes to connecting with her peers. She can be a touch…withdrawn at times, and aside from Ollie, she hasn’t really made many friends. There are few other students she speaks to, but she seems to be having trouble relating to them and responding appropriately.”

Toby knows Mr. Joshi isn’t trying to insult his daughter—he’s only bringing the matter up because he’s concerned for her well-being, and it’s not as if Toby hasn’t had similar worries in the past—but he jumps to defend her anyhow. “She’s just shy with new people. She always has been. If you just give her time, she’ll…She’ll open up. There’s nothing wrong with her.”

Mr. Joshi holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m not saying there is, Mr. Hamilton. I know it’s been only a month, and this is a new experience for her, and all children adapt in their own time. It very well could be a case of simple shyness,” Mr. Joshi says, almost apologetic; immediately, Toby feels a gut-punch of guilt for having snapped at him, though the small seed of panic still sticks in his stomach. “But regardless of the cause,” Mr. Joshi continues. “I think it would be best to be proactive in this situation.”

“Meaning?”

Mr. Joshi shrugs. “Meaning we facilitate her socialisation however possible, aid her in developing the skills she needs to interact with others, introduce her into situations that will encourage her to build social confidence.”

Whatever doubts Toby may have had about Mr. Joshi when they first met, they’re gone now; it’s obvious that this man cares about his students and is committed to doing whatever he can to help them. Toby almost wants to apologise to him, but instead, he takes a steadying breath and asks, “And how do you suggest we go about that?”

“Well, there are a few things we could do, but we want to be sure not to push her too much,” Mr. Joshi explains. “As a start, it might do her some good if you were to set some playdates for her on a regular basis. Or even better, if you were to sign her up for a sport. Something where she can be part of a team and work on her self-esteem and social skills in a more informal, low-pressure environment.”

“Oh, I don’t…I don’t know about that.” Toby bites his lip as he considers it. It’s not a _terrible_ idea, it’s perfectly reasonable in fact, but Charlie’s quite a clumsy thing, and almost every sport is nothing more than an invitation to injury; he couldn’t bear it if she were to get hurt. And besides, he hardly has the time as it is. Shuttling Charlie to practices and matches on a daily basis would likely push his spread-thin, carefully-calibrated schedule to its breaking point; of course, there is always Emma, but he can’t possibly impose on her any more than he already has. And not to mention, there’s Ollie to consider.

But Toby doesn’t even have to try to put any of his worries into words, because Mr. Joshi simply nods, his eyes soft and warm with genuine compassion that makes Toby feel terribly _seen_. “I understand,” he says. “It is quite a commitment, and I know it’s difficult to make time when you’re a single parent. Just something to think about in the future.”

And just like that, Mr. Joshi smoothly nudges them back into safer waters, chattering on about all the upcoming projects and lessons he has planned for the children. The anxiety doesn’t abate from Toby entirely, but listening to Mr. Joshi talk, he’s able to push it to the back of his mind for a bit, set it aside for later, and get lost in Mr. Joshi’s gentle voice and his obvious passion for what he does. 

Before long, though, the time comes for Toby to be off, and strangely enough, in complete juxtaposition to their last meeting, he finds himself somewhat reluctant to go. He dawdles in his borrowed chair for some time, gathering the handouts and paintings Mr. Joshi has surrendered to him as slowly as he can. Though, he knows he can’t dally too long; Mr. Joshi has other meetings, other parents to get through tonight. When at last he stands, papers tucked under his arm, Mr. Joshi walks him to the door, thanking him for coming and pointing out his email on the paper he gave Toby in case Toby has any questions in the future.

With no more cause for delay, Toby thanks him in return and makes for the door.

“Mr. Hamilton, before you go…” 

Toby’s heart jumps in his chest, and an inexplicable excitement grabs his stomach as he turns back to Mr. Joshi. 

“Yes?” He internally curses himself for sounding so pathetically hopeful.

“There is one more thing…” Mr. Joshi takes a step closer to Toby, looking damn near shy, and Toby’s heart starts kicking up a storm. “I don’t mean to overstep, but…We have a few other single parents at the school, and they’ve formed something of a group. Nothing official,” he clarifies. “But they have arrangements in place to help with pick-ups, drop-offs, babysitting, things like that. They look out for each other, try to make being a single parent a little easier, a little less…lonely.” He pauses, studying Toby for a moment before he cautiously adds, “They’ll all be at the PTA meeting tomorrow night, and if you like, if you’re available, I could introduce you.”

“Oh, um…” 

Toby hesitates, fiddling with the bent corner of one of the papers. It’s difficult sometimes, of course, but he doesn’t need help raising his children. He’s perfectly capable of doing it on his own, making it work no matter what it takes. He doesn’t need nor necessarily trust some group of strangers, no matter how well-intentioned, to intrude into his and his children’s lives. 

And yet…Well, it couldn’t hurt to just meet them. And if he’s meant to start setting Charlie up on playdates, he will have to actually get to know some of the other parents first. And he doesn’t want to come off as standoffish or ungrateful when Mr. Joshi has gone out of his way to make such a kind offer. And…God, it would be nice to have a bit of help.

“Yes, I--I suppose I could come.”

Mr. Joshi smiles, and Toby knows he’s made the right choice.

\---

As Toby pulls up in front of the school the next night, he really isn’t sure why he agreed to come to this meeting in the first place. He doesn’t like being away from the twins more than once a week, let alone twice in a row. And he’s going to owe Emma a massive thank you for giving up two consecutive nights of her much-needed free time to babysit. And he has more than enough work that he ought to be doing to prepare for his lectures. 

But the moment Mr. Joshi had suggested it, Toby had known he was going to cave and accept the invitation. He had only just begun overturning Mr. Joshi’s poor first impression of him, and rejecting his offer surely would have put Toby right back to square one, branding him as a callous, stubborn misanthrope. And…There’s just _something_ about Mr. Joshi that makes Toby terribly keen to prove himself to him and earn his way into his good graces. Though, that feeling is hardly new to Toby; there had been plenty of boys like Mr. Joshi at Eton, popular, perfect boys whose attention Toby had wanted so badly to be worthy of, whose friendship and approval he had craved in his loneliness even when he knew better.

After thoroughly checking his reflection in the rearview and patting down his hair as well as he can, Toby steps out of the car and hurries inside. He had made sure to arrive fifteen minutes early, but when he enters the room, there are already far more people present than he had expected; there are nearly fifty parents and teachers milling about, and they’re all chatting amiably, as though they all already know each other well. 

Shy anxiety bites at Toby’s stomach as he awkwardly shuffles further into the room. He doesn’t know anyone here, not a familiar face among them, and a stab of guilt sneaks into the mix as he realises this; he ought to know these people, he ought to have come to a meeting before, he ought to have taken an interest in the affairs of his children’s school as surely any good father would have.

Swallowing down his shame, he focuses instead on the room around him, taking in the expansive space. There are dozens of scuffed metal chairs organised in neat rows in the centre of the room, facing towards the northern wall. Atop the unimpressive bump that is poorly trying to pass itself off as a stage is a lectern, a portable projector screen, and several more metal chairs. At the back of the room is a line of plastic folding tables, laden with every possible type of baked goods, a jumble of crisp packets, and an expansive array of beverages. Having skipped dinner—too twisted up with anticipation to get a single bite down—Toby’s stomach grumbles at the sight of the virtual cornucopia, but he deftly ignores it, moving further still into the room.

His eyes sweep around the large space, searching through the crowd for any sign of Mr. Joshi. Even if he is less than enthusiastic about meeting this group of other parents, he’d really prefer not to have to spend the next ten minutes loitering about on his own, sticking out like a sore, silent thumb, and he has to admit, he really wouldn’t mind having a moment to chat with Mr. Joshi again. Despite their rocky start, they had gotten on remarkably well at their meeting last night, or at least, it had seemed so to Toby.

But before Toby can catch either hide or hair of Mr. Joshi, he is accosted by a rather short but aggressively cheerful woman, who introduces herself as the PTA president. As she has never seen Toby at a meeting before and apparently knows each and every one of her PTA disciples, she spends a fair few minutes interrogating Toby, asking about his children and whether he plans to attend regularly. When at last she’s satisfied with his stumbling answers, she shoos him towards the quickly-filling rows of chairs and bustles off to take her place on the stage. Toby gives the room one last survey, but Mr. Joshi is still nowhere to be seen, and Toby has to hurry to find a seat before they’re all taken.

The meeting is…dreadfully dull. They open with a riveting introduction of the board members and an enthralling confirmation of the last meeting’s minutes, and the night only grows more tedious from there. There’s a pointless, unanimous vote for some new secretary or other, budgets and newsletters are discussed in painstaking detail, and the headteacher speaks at length about several newly implemented policies that Toby can’t even be bothered to pretend to give a toss about. 

As the headteacher prattles on, Toby checks his watch only to find it’s been nought but an hour since the meeting began; he nearly groans in agony, not sure how much more of this he can take. He feels ready to burst out of his skin, his fingers tapping restlessly on his knee as his anxiety builds, his eyes still sneaking furtive, fruitless glances whenever he can. Blessedly, just when Toby is sure he can’t listen to another insipid word, the headteacher at last retreats from the lectern, allowing the short woman—God, Toby’s already forgotten her name—to step up to the mic and announce a ten-minute intermission.

Toby shoots out of his seat the second the words have passed her lips.

He heads straight for the tables at the back; the cakes and biscuits and hand pies are mightily enticing, but his paradoxical stomach turns at the sight of them, and he reaches instead for a squat bottle of lukewarm water. As he cracks the seal on the cap, his hands shake ever so slightly with nerves. He’s not terrible at meeting new people; it’s not his favourite thing to do, of course, but he’s not bad at it, not unaccustomed to it; half his childhood was spent being trotted around to shake hands with snobby men and women who didn’t actually care to know him. But still, something about the idea of meeting these other parents has him tied up in all sorts of knots; it’s nothing more than a friendly introduction, but he can’t help feeling it’s extremely important, vital even, that everything goes smoothly. 

The thin, plastic cap crushed in one hand, the edges digging painfully into his palm, he lifts the bottle to his lips and takes a long, careful sip.

“Mr. Hamilton, you came.”

Nearly choking on his water, Toby spins around to find Mr. Joshi stood behind him, that easy, charming smile sitting like heaven on his lips.

“Well, I said I’d come, didn’t I?” He says when his brain at last stutters back into usefulness. He tugs up a smile of his own; it comes easier than he had expected. “I’m a man of my word.” 

Screwing the cap back on his bottle, he lets his eyes sweep over Mr. Joshi. Tonight, unsurprisingly, he’s wearing another jumper; this one is emerald green, patterned with little yellow and orange cartoon maple leaves, and yet somehow, he still manages to carry it off, just as unbearably handsome as ever. His sleeves are down, tactfully hiding his tattoo from view, and there’s no paint flecked on his hands today, but most noteworthy is the fact that his hair has been given a reprieve its usual styling; it flops messily over his forehead, a luscious tangle of black, and Toby has the sudden, unbidden urge to run his fingers through it to see if it is as soft as it looks.

Once again, standing in front of him, Toby feels woefully inadequate, and he can’t stop himself fiddling with his glasses and his cuffs as a shy blush spreads over his cheeks.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Mr. Joshi says, and he seems to truly mean it; something in Toby’s chest twists, not unpleasantly, at the thought. “I know it was awfully short notice, and--”

“No, no. I wouldn’t have missed it.” _Wait, what? No._ “Er, I mean, it’s, uh, important. The PTA. I, uh, I’ve been meaning to…get involved. So, well…Here I am,” Toby finishes lamely, not quite able to meet Mr. Joshi’s eye.

After giving Toby a partially concerned but mostly amused once-over, Mr. Joshi asks, “So, how are you finding your first meeting?”

“Oh, it’s, um, it’s…” Toby’s mind reels for something, anything positive to say about this drab slog of bureaucratic nonsense, but he comes up entirely blank. “It’s really quite…”

“Mind-numbingly boring?” Mr. Joshi supplies helpfully.

“Yes,” Toby admits with a laugh. “Terribly so.”

“Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but…” Mr. Joshi leans in conspiratorially, his eyes bright with humour, and Toby’s jittery heart stutters for a beat. “It’s not going to get any better from here out.”

“You know, I suspected as much,” Toby says, shaking his head, feigning weary resignation, though he can’t bite back his goofy grin for long. But as silence falls between them, Toby’s grin begins to dip, and desperate to prolong the exchange, he reaches for the first conversational lifeline he can think to throw out. “So, um, no painting today, then?” He asks, nodding towards Mr. Joshi’s hands; immediately, he regrets the question.

Mr. Joshi glances down, splaying his hands and inspecting them for a moment before looking back up to Toby with a quiet smile that Toby can’t put a name on. “Only Wednesdays and Fridays, unfortunately. But I try to fit in other art projects wherever I can.”

“I see.” Toby fiddles with the cap on his water bottle, twisting it back and forth as he tries to distil the gush of his burgeoning curiosity into a glib stream of natural banter. “Are you, um, are you an artist?” 

Mr. Joshi shrugs, his eyes ducked modestly. “Depends on your definition, I suppose.” 

“I only ask because, well…” Toby shifts the water bottle from one hand to the other, searching for the right words. “You seem the type.”

Those are not the right words.

A slightly bemused look on his face, Mr. Joshi tilts his head to the side as if he’s not sure whether to be flattered or insulted, and Toby’s cheeks grow warm with chagrin; though, Mr. Joshi’s still smiling, so he can’t be too terribly offended. “I took a few intro classes in university,” he admits. “Life drawing, painting, ceramics, but that’s about it. My heart had always been set on becoming a teacher, and anyhow, I was never good enough to pursue it further.”

“I’m sure you’re wonderful.” _Shit._ The thin plastic of the water bottle crinkles loudly in his grip, and he hurries to correct himself. “Er, I mean, your artwork, I’m sure your artwork is wonderful.”

Toby’s skin burns as if he’d doused himself in petrol and jumped into a furnace; he can’t seem to keep his bloody foot out of his mouth for two seconds, but thankfully, somehow, Mr. Joshi either doesn’t think anything of the strange slip or he’s polite enough to not comment on it.

“Good enough to impress my students at least. Though, I--”

Before he can finish that thought, someone taps twice on the mic and asks that everyone please return to their seats so the meeting can reconvene. Toby’s heart sinks, but his spirits are quickly buoyed when Mr. Joshi sweeps out a hand, as if to say _lead the way_ , and follows Toby back to his seat.

The remainder of the meeting is even more stuffy—just an endless parade of committee members giving reports on matters Toby knows nothing about—but sat beside Mr. Joshi, close enough that he can smell the woodsy, spicy scent of his cologne, Toby can hardly focus on the sludge of monotony. A gentle excitement buzzes through him, eager to have done with this meeting so he can talk with Mr. Joshi once more. Hardly satisfied by their brief bout of small talk, a hundred and one inquisitive questions pile up on his tongue, impatient to be spoken. Perhaps it is odd to seek friendship or to even desire friendship in his children’s teacher, but well, Emma’s always told him he could do with a few more friends, and even if being around the man makes him oddly nervous, Toby can’t deny that something in him is drawn to Mr. Joshi, pulled in by an undeniable kinship.

When the meeting at long last does adjourn, though, Mr. Joshi beats Toby to the punch. He turns to Toby with a tempered, somewhat shy smile and asks, “If you’re still interested, the other parents are all here, and I could introduce you now, if you like?” 

Toby, having almost entirely forgotten the true purpose for which he had come this evening, can’t completely hide his disappointment, nor his hesitation. But he puts on a suitable grin and agrees anyhow. Following Mr. Joshi across the room, he doesn’t know quite what to expect of this group—Mr. Joshi hadn’t given him much detail beyond the fact that they were all single parents as well—and his anxiety grows with every step he takes, even as he tries to tell himself it hardly matters. He’s still very much undecided about joining this group in any capacity, but yet, for whatever reason, he’s worried they won’t like him, won’t accept him.

As they reach the back corner of the room, Toby’s anxiety is momentarily set aside, and he’s rather surprised to find there are only three people waiting for them, two men and one woman; it seems Mr. Joshi wasn’t exaggerating when he said a few. Toby sighs in tentative relief; at least now he won’t have come up with some excuse for Emma to explain why he won’t be coming home with a date.

On the left, the woman stands with one hand planted on her hip, and she holds her paper cup of cheap coffee as if it were a crystal flute filled with the finest champagne, exuding a sort of husky glamour. She has dark, perfectly styled hair and sharp eyes, and her bright red lips bend into a smile as the man beside her leans in to whisper something in her ear; when she laughs, it is bright and unabashed. 

In the middle, the man who made her laugh has a remarkably gentle, friendly nature about him, recognisable even from a distance. His dark eyes are honest and kind, his own smile quiet and easy-going as he gazes at his companions; he’s rather neat, well-groomed and nicely dressed; though, it would seem he shops at the same store as Mr. Joshi as, on top of his pressed oxford, he is wearing a tacky sweater-vest that is embroidered with a jumble of musical notes. 

On the right, watching the other two with a smug grin, the second man looks like he walked straight out of a timewarp from the mid-century, like some leading man of classic Hollywood: all chiselled features, shrewd eyes, and suave charm, though there’s something almost weary hanging about him, too. His hair is shiny and slicked back, his wrinkled tie is hanging loose and askew, and he’s twirling a peculiar, bronze coin between his fingers as he chats with the others. 

But their chatter dies out when they notice Mr. Joshi approaching, and a second after they spot him, their eyes slip back to Toby; his stomach turns. 

“Well, well, what do we have here?” The woman drawls with a smirk as Mr. Joshi steps into their circle; tentatively, Toby takes the spot beside him, wringing his hands.

“This is Toby Hamilton, the man I told you about,” Mr. Joshi says. A flash of heat sweeps over Toby, and he can’t help but smile, hearing his name drop from Mr. Joshi’s lips. “Mr. Hamilton, this is Betsey Day…” He gestures to the woman. “Sonny Sullivan…” The man in the middle. “And Joe O’Hara.” The man on the right.

They greet him politely enough, all with seemingly genuine smiles on their faces, and a fraction of Toby’s nerves dissipate as he shakes each of their hands in turn, only hoping that they won’t notice how clammy his palm is. But with the introductions through, a strained silence settles over them as they all glance around at each other, like the world’s least climatic Wild West standoff, simply waiting for someone to be brave enough to speak up and break the awkward air.

“So, where’d you find this one?” Joe asks at last, nodding his head in Toby’s direction. Toby’s a bit thrown to realise he’s American; in London or Oxford, he wouldn’t have thought twice, but in Caldecott? Well, transplants aren’t as nearly common outside of the city.

Mr. Joshi sends a quick, sideways glance at Toby before answering. “Mr. Hamilton’s children are in my class. He came in for parents’ evening last night.”

“Oh, you lucked out,” Betsey says.

“How so?” Toby asks, brows furrowed.

With a proud smile, she points a burgundy-nailed finger at Mr. Joshi. “Adil here is the best teacher your kids could’ve asked for.”

 _Adil. His name is Adil_. Something in Toby’s chest sparks with gentle joy, quietly thrilled by the knowledge. The name seems to fit _Adil_ somehow: soft and simple and dulcet. Toby mouths the name to himself, testing the weight of it, feeling the shape of the letters on his tongue.

“Miss Day…” Adil warns, though he’s smiling, so the reprimand hardly holds any power.

Betsey scoffs and waves a dismissive hand at Adil. “Oh, come off it. It’s after hours, and we’re all adults. No need to be so formal.” She juts a thumb to her right. “You don’t see Sonny making us call him Mr. Sullivan.” 

Adil rolls his eyes but doesn’t press the matter any further. “Anyway,” he says pointedly. “I have to help clean up, so I’ll let you four chat and get to know each other a bit.”

Watching Adil walk away, Toby is hit once again by a wave of disappointment, quickly followed by a shower of dread as he turns back to the others. Left alone, surrounded by these strangers, he feels very much as he did the first time his parents packed him away on the train to Eton: unsure of himself and terribly small, his voice shrunken inside of him. He reaches up, adjusting his glasses, and stumbles around his mind, searching for something interesting and personable to say. He comes up empty-handed.

Luckily, Sonny takes pity on him. “So, you have two children?”

“Yes, uh, twins,” Toby says, an absent smile already growing on his face, as it always does when he’s given a chance to discuss his children. “Charlotte and Oliver. They’re five, almost six. Their birthday is next week actually.”

“Six-year-olds?” Joe asks, stepping up beside Toby, filling the gap Adil left behind. He nudges Toby with his elbow and gives him a crooked grin. “Now how is that possible? You’re hardly more than a kid yourself.”

The question is innocent enough, clearly meant as a joke, and he’s gotten the same question dozens of times before, but Toby tenses up all the same. He’s not ashamed or insecure, and the twins know the circumstances of their birth—or least, they know the nice, sanitised version; he’s never tried to hide the fact that they’re adopted, always told them and believed himself that it didn’t make a difference because he is still their father in every way that matters, but when it comes to outsiders…He doesn’t always trust that they will see it the way he does, that they won’t want to pry and dig into the sordid details, and it’s such a long story that, sometimes, it’s just easier to lie. But if he’s to be friends with these people, he can’t keep up a lie indefinitely.

For now, he merely shrugs, puts on a smile, and elegantly sidesteps the matter. “Well, I am nearly thirty, so I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It must have been difficult,” Sonny says, his deep voice saturated with charitable sympathy. “Raising two children on your own at such a young age.”

“I’ll say.” Betsey takes a sip from her cup, leaving a vivid red smudge on the rim, and she shakes her head in mild disbelief. “I only got the one, and I can hardly handle her most days.”

Sonny and Joe nod in wry agreement, half-smiles tilting their lips, and when they turn back to Toby, expecting an answer to the unasked question, he dodges their gazes, ducking his head and pushing his hands into his pockets.

“It’s not easy,” he concedes. “But I get by. For the most part.”

Betsey frowns, her head tipped to the side and her sharp eyes softened by the same considerate pity he’s used to seeing from Emma. “It ain’t just about getting by, love.”

Not very deep down, Toby knows she’s right, knows she’s only trying to be nice and helpful, knows that that’s the whole reason why he’s here tonight. But the concern chafes against him anyhow, and he can only give her a tense smile in response. “And what about you?” He asks, eager to shift the conversation away from himself. “How old is your daughter?”

“Rosy, she’s eight. Sweetest little thing, she is, but by God, she’s a handful and a half.” Betsey rolls her eyes, but the gesture is undoubtedly a fond one, devoid of any genuine irritation. “Would be a total lost cause if it weren’t for Nina, leading her right.”

“Who’s Nina?”

“My daughter,” Sonny says, his eyes shining, full of warm pride. “She and Rosy are in the same year. Attached at the hip from day one.” He turns to Betsey with a blooming grin, a grin so dear Toby feels he ought to look away to give them a bit of privacy. “It’s actually how Betsey and I met.”

“Oh…” Though he knows it’s a bit ridiculous, Toby can’t help but feel slightly intimidated by their obvious history, can’t help but feel he’s interloping somewhere he doesn’t yet belong. “How long have you two known each other, then?”

“Three years now. It was just us for a while. Then, last year…” Sonny nods towards Joe with another wide grin, though this one is hardly as cosy as the one he gave Betsey. “Joe came along and made us three.”

Toby turns to Joe, then. “What brought you to Caldecott?”

Joe shrugs, nonchalant, though something heavy and solemn darkens his face. “Just needed a fresh start, wanted to get away from Chicago,” Joe explains, twirling his coin around and around, rubbing his thumb against its blunt edge. “Got a job with a paper in the city, but I wanted to raise Ernie, my son, somewhere a bit quieter.”

“Ernie?” Toby echoes curiously. “That’s not a very common name these days.”

Joe nods and crosses his arms, rather self-satisfied, the darkness slipping away from him as easily as it had come. “Named after the legendary Mr. Sunshine himself.”

Darting a confused glance around the others, Toby pauses, racking his brain for a moment before he simply asks, “I’m sorry, who?”

“Ernie Banks?” When Toby continues to merely stare blankly at him, Joe adds, “Superstar first baseman and shortstop for the Cubs from ‘53 to ‘71? One of the best players the game has ever seen?”

Entirely lost, never much of one to pay attention to any form of sport, Toby can do nothing more than shake his head in apology. “I don’t know what any of that means.”

Much to Toby’s surprise, Joe simply laughs and gives Toby a hearty slap on the back. “I like you, kid,” he pronounces, squeezing Toby’s shoulder; Toby tries not to flinch away from the touch.

“Don’t worry, it’s just baseball nonsense,” Betsey informs Toby in a stage whisper. “Best not to get him started. He’ll talk your bloody ear off, going on about ribs and ETAs.”

“It’s RBIs and ERAs,” Joe corrects. “And excuse me for having an interest, alright?”

He says more—some rubbish or other about what a tragedy it is that Brits don’t know the joy that is baseball—but Toby’s not really listening. His attention has been caught by something across the room. Namely, Adil. 

Riveted, he watches as Adil rolls his sleeves up with practised precision, exposing his slender wrists and toned forearms. Toby’s eyes go wide, and his breath falters when, without a moment of hesitation or difficulty, Adil lifts a hefty stack of the folding chairs, carrying them effortlessly over toward a storage closet tucked away beside the stage; Toby licks his lips, the low ache of hunger in his stomach suddenly ten times keener, and he leans slightly to the side to keep Adil in his view as he--

Someone clears their throat, and a polite elbow knocks into Toby’s arm.

His cheeks aflame, Toby snaps back to the others, blinking dumbly as he looks around at them and shrivelling when he finds Joe’s gaze already on him; his shrewd eyes glitter with blatant amusement, and he gives Toby a slow smile that makes him want to tuck his tail and run. 

“Sorry, I--” Toby tugs his collar away from his throat, feeling a bit warm and short of breath. “I must have…drifted off a bit. Long day, you know.”

It hardly comes out convincing, even to his own ears, but blessedly, no one questions him, and the conversation sails smoothly on. They mostly talk about their children—gushing in turns about the wonderful and ridiculous things they do—but also they get to chatting a bit about their jobs. Toby learns that Sonny is the school’s music teacher, and as such, he generously takes the children after school every day until Betsey and Joe get off work. He also learns that Betsey is a hairdresser at a small salon in town, and with a wink, she offers to give him a discount if he brings the twins to her for their next haircut, though she also insists that her work is more than worth the cost. And Joe apparently is a columnist for the _Oxford Times_ , writing human interest stories that pull on the heartstrings in hopes of inspiring change. 

Their lives all seem infinitely more interesting than Toby’s, but they still listen attentively as he tells them about his lectures and research, asking him all sorts of questions and laughing at his terrible jokes. Quite abruptly, he realises he no longer feels like an outsider pressing in; they include him so easily, as if he’s always been a part of their ragtag team, as if they’ve known him for years. And he’s even beginning to relax and enjoy their company. 

Of course, it’s then that Betsey’s phone rings. Rummaging through her bag, shoving aside several packets of crisps she seems to have nicked from the tables at the back, she pulls out a rather dated phone and checks the caller ID. She drops an impressive string of curses under her breath, then turns to them with an apologetic smile.

“That was the sitter,” she explains. “Suppose that means I gotta be heading home.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Sonny offers, laying a friendly hand on her shoulder. 

She nods, and, after retrieving their coats, Betsey and Sonny shake Toby’s hand one more time, telling him sincerely what a pleasure it was to meet him and how they hope to see him again. Then, just like that, they go on their way, leaving Joe and Toby on their own.

They stand in newly stiff silence for a long moment before Joe sighs, stretching out his arm in front of him, pulling back his sleeve and checking his watch. “Think it’s about time I head out, too,” he announces. He turns to Toby, his eyes narrowed in brief deliberation before he decides to bite the bullet. “Look, the three of us, we all get together on Saturdays, have dinner together, let the kids play for a bit. I’ll be hosting this week, and you’re more than welcome to join us.” 

“Oh, um…” Toby hesitates, though he’s not entirely sure why. It’s an innocent offer, a kind offer, and despite his previous reservations, he does rather like Betsey, Sonny, and Joe. And the twins could certainly do with some friends who aren’t each other or him or Emma, but still…Something in him wants to shy away. “I don’t know.”

Joe holds his hands up in surrender. “It’s alright. No pressure.” Reaching into his back pocket, he digs out a battered wallet and withdraws a flimsy business card. “If you change your mind, give me a call. We’d be happy to have you and the twins.”

Swallowing back his hesitation, Toby accepts the card.

He bids Joe a good night, and suddenly, he’s on his own once again. He peers down at the card in his hand, runs his thumb over the phone number printed there, smudging the cheap ink. Then, he too checks his watch. Damn near nine o’clock already. He groans to himself, scrubbing a hand over his face as his exhaustion at last catches him up; he hadn’t meant to be away for so long, and now he’s going to owe Emma a massive apology as well. 

He throws one last, hopeful glance around the room, but Adil is nowhere to be found, so, with a sigh, Toby tucks the card in his pocket and turns to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know this wasn't the most exciting chapter, but I had to get it some groundwork laid for the rest of the plot. Next chapter will be more interesting, I hope, and definitely way shorter. And we'll see more of Betsey, Sonny, and Joe in the next chapter; I know I skimped a bit here, but this was just supposed to be a short intro.
> 
> Up next: Our house, in the middle of our street. AKA, the Hamiltons are going to dinner...


	5. there's always something happening, and it's usually quite loud

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, a massive shoutout and a huge thank you to [AstriferousSprite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstriferousSprite) for basically co-authoring this fic by helping me with every single question and idea I have and cheering me on every time I lose steam. Truly, I would be lost without you.
> 
> Secondly, just a bit of shenanigans and flirting. Bone app the teeth.
> 
> Chapter title from, you guessed it, "Our House" by Madness.

“Up or down?”

Charlie studies her reflection in the mirror, her eyes narrowed, her little nose wrinkled, her lips pursed in deliberate deliberation as she drags the little silver fox charm on her necklace back and forth with a metallic _zip_. Rolling the hairband back and forth between his thumb and forefinger, Toby does his best not to glance at his watch and instead waits somewhat patiently for her decision. She taps one finger against her chin, humming thoughtfully and considering the matter as if it were one of life and death, and although they are almost certainly already well on their way to running late, he can’t help but smile at the act. 

“Plaited, please,” she pronounces, at last, nearly a full minute later. Hardly a surprise.

Toby eyes Charlie’s frizzy and tangled mop wearily, but nonetheless, he puts on a grin and bows obediently. “Your wish is my command, ma’am.”

Charlie giggles and lifts her chin proudly as Toby drops a kiss on the crown of her head and reaches for the brush. Thankfully, after years of practice, he is able to make short work of the plait, weaving the strands together with ease, and once he’s secured the hairband into place and carefully slipped in the star-shaped clip she’s picked out, he hustles Charlie out of the bathroom with only a few precious minutes lost. Of course, it’s then that he finds Ollie sat atop his bed, still in his pyjamas, playing with his unfortunate, partially bald dolls.

He loses another seven minutes convincing Ollie to get up and suitably dressed, and naturally, by the time he’s sorted Ollie out, Charlie has wandered off. Once he manages to locate her—back in the bathroom, sat atop the edge of the tub as she twists hairbands into poor Adobe’s tangled mane—it’s another five minutes to get both of them down the stairs, shoes on, and in the car; and obviously, the moment he’s got them both buckled in the backseat, Ollie informs him that he doesn’t want to wear his trainers anymore and he wants to wear his wellies instead, despite the fact that there’s not a single grey cloud in the sky. Once he’s pried off Ollie’s trainers, jogged back to the house, hunted down his wellies, jogged back to the car, got his wellies on him, and thrown himself into the driver’s seat, it’s another three minutes gone.

With shaking fingers, he types the address Joe had given him into his phone and checks the route one more time, carefully pouring over each and every turn, before he starts the car and shifts into reverse.

They’ve hardly even made it out of the drive before Charlie’s little feet are kicking the back of his seat. “Where are we going, Daddy?”

“We’re having dinner with some friends,” he tells her, trying—and failing—to sound more confident about this decision than he is. All of Thursday night and right on through to Friday, Toby had agonised over Joe’s invitation. Half of him, a rather strong and stubborn half, had wanted to just forget all about it, to put the meeting behind him and continue on with his life as he’d always lived it, to be content with what he already has and reach for no more. He’s come this far on his own, after all; there’s no reason why he couldn’t keep going on his own. But the other half of him, a half that he has steadily smothered for years as he fostered his facsimile of wary independence, had begged him to pick up the phone and take a chance for once. In the end, it had been a simple moment of impulsivity, a temporary lapse into bravery that made him press the call button, and by the time he had enough sense to regret the decision, Joe had picked up, and it had been too late to back out. Over the past twenty-four hours, he’s tried valiantly to convince himself this is for the best, but…He’s had middling success at best.

“But Aunt Em says you don’t have any friends,” Ollie helpfully points out.

“Well, Aunt Em is wrong.” Dutifully flipping on his indicator, Toby makes a smooth left turn, then, after a moment of hesitation, he adds, “Don’t tell her I said that.”

The house they pull up in front of is a modest one: a narrow red-brick terrace house with a minuscule stamp of a front garden and a bright blue door. There are already two cars in the narrow drive, so Toby figures they must be the last to arrive. Ollie is first out of the car, all but throwing him out the door, and as he waits, he pokes at the very much dead flowers that droop over the front wall, a severe frown on his face. Charlie—who hitherto had been chattering and speculating excitedly about the aeroplane she’d spotted out her window even long after it had disappeared from view—silently crawls out after him. The second the car door is closed behind her, she grabs Toby’s hand tight and ducks behind his legs, stepping on his heels with every step as they make their way up the front path.

At the door, Toby hesitates, his free hand balled into a fist at his side while his heart does its very best to crawl into his throat and explode. He doesn’t know what will be waiting for on the other side. Perhaps the ease with which Betsey, Sonny, and Joe had incorporated Toby into their conversation on Thursday night will be gone; perhaps as they broach past the topic of children and jobs, they’ll find him dull and awkward, and they’ll regret having invited him. And what about the twins? What if their children don’t like Charlie and Ollie? It’s never a given that children will get on, even if they are far less finicky than adults, and if the children don’t get on, well, then it hardly matters if Toby is keen to be friends with their parents. And God, he ought to have brought something, some little dish or other; of course, Joe had told him there was no need, but still, it’s terribly rude to show up to someone’s home for the first time empty-handed.

But he feels so silly, standing there, frightened of a bloody door while his children are waiting, staring up at him, so he takes a few deep, shaky breaths, then knocks before he can talk himself out of it.

There’s a worryingly loud clatter inside, the indelicate rattle of mishandled dishware, and a moment later, the door is thrown open. Gussied up to perfection once again, Betsey leans in the doorway with a smooth smile that Toby is sure would make most men fall all over themselves.

“Look who the cat dragged in.”

“Miss Day, nice to--”

“Oh, don’t you dare Miss-Day me,” she says, swatting his shoulder. “It’s Betsey or Bets. Nothing else. Understand?” Toby simply nods, though he too is smiling now, and Betsey turns her attention downwards. “And who do we have here?”

Toby drops his free hand on Ollie’s head, ruffling his curls and eliciting a hiccuping giggle from his son. “This is Ollie, and…” Tugging gently on Charlie’s hand, he pulls her out from behind him and steps to the side. “This is Charlie.”

“It’s nice to meet you two.” Kneeling down, Betsey holds her hand out to Ollie, then Charlie. “I’ve heard an awful lot about you.”

“You’re really pretty,” Charlie says with the earnest honesty only a child is capable of as she gives Betsey’s hand a bouncy shake.

With a laugh and crooked smirk, Betsey reaches out and pinches Charlie’s pink cheek. “Well, aren’t you just sweet enough to eat?” She pushes herself back up, flipping her hair over her shoulder, and her eyes glitter with fond amusement when she meets Toby’s once more. “They look just like ya,” she tells him kindly. Even as his throat goes tight, Toby puts on a fragile smile for her, but he can tell the exact moment when Betsey sees straight through it. Thankfully, she chooses not to comment. “Alright, you and your sprogs get in here. Dinner’s almost ready, or so Joe says.” 

She waves them in and promptly turns away, sauntering back down the hall, leaving Toby and the twins to follow and close the door behind them. The foyer is wonderfully warm after the chill outside, and the homey aroma of something baking in the oven permeates the air. Betsey heads straight to the back, where all the clamour seems to be coming from, which Toby has to assume is the kitchen. He makes his way down the hall after her, one twin attached on either side of him now, but he stops to peek into the living room and the dining room along the way.

Joe doesn’t have much. The living room boasts only a faded old sofa, a battered coffee table, and a smallish television mounted on the wall. The dining room is hardly any better with its rickety old table, mismatched chairs, and fireplace that looks as if it hasn’t been touched in decades. If Toby didn’t know any better, he’d assume a young uni student was living here, but he supposes Joe probably deserves a bit of slack; after all, he had moved all the way across the Atlantic, and it’s quite likely he had to leave the majority of his belongings behind.

By the time he and the twins shuffle into the kitchen, Betsey is hanging half out the door to the back garden, hollering to the other children. Across the room, Joe is elbow-deep in a mess of flour, wearing a white, pinstriped apron that is doing very little to actually protect his clothing. 

“Hey there, Toby.” He looks up from his bowl just long enough to toss a grin Toby and the twins’ way before going right back to his kneading. “Glad you and the kids could make it.”

Before Toby can respond or apologise for his empty hands, a flood of small children comes bursting through the back door with Sonny bringing up the rear at much more sedate pace. The children slide to a halt in front of Toby and the twins, ringed around them, their eager eyes bobbing curiously from Charlie to Toby to Ollie and back. Rosy, one hand on her hip and her head cocked to the side, is a dead-ringer for her mother: same dark hair, same sharp features, same radiant confidence. Nina must take after her mother, too, but Toby can see touches of Sonny in her friendly demeanour and her quiet smile that’s missing two teeth. With his shaggy mop of pale brown hair and blue eyes, Toby imagines Ernie is the perfect blend of his mother and father because there are hints of Joe in his face, but they’re muddled, softened by another influence.

The children have hardly even been introduced, hardly even gotten all of their names out, before they’ve taken to each other. Ollie is instantly entranced by Nina, marvelling at her glittery nails and her colourful bobble hat, and Charlie gazes up at Rosy and Ernie in open wonder, already shyly babbling about the red fox on Rosy’s shirt and eyeing the football tucked under her arm with great interest. The second Ernie asks if they’d like to join them for a game of foursquare, the twins abandon Toby in a heartbeat, running after their new friends, their previous hesitation all but forgotten. Sonny, too, lingers just long enough to shake Toby’s hand and tell him he’s happy to see him again before he’s back out the door to watch over the children.

A knot of concern forms in Toby’s stomach as his children disappear from sight, but that concern is almost entirely overshadowed by an immediate, tremendous wave of relief; a weight drops from his shoulders, and he lets out a slow breath as one spewing tap of his anxiety is shut off. In his efforts to protect them, he knows he has perhaps sheltered the twins a bit too much, and as nervous as it makes him to consider, they are growing up; the time has come for them to begin to venture out from him, to begin making their own connections in the world, and maybe this is the perfect place to start. After all, he feels a thousand times less unsure having actually been able to meet the parents first, vet them out a bit before allowing his children to run about with theirs—though it sounds so terrible and snobbish to think of it like that—and Rosy, Nina, and Ernie seem like nice enough kids; they could be a good influence on the twins, particularly Charlie. Of course, it’s far too soon to count his eggs, and there’s no telling if the children will continue to get along as the evening progresses, but for the moment, he is cautiously optimistic. 

Though, he is decidedly less than optimistic for himself as he’s left alone with Betsey and Joe, stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure what to do with himself now that his children are no longer attached to him. He wants to say something, say anything, but his voice feels stuck in his throat, pressed down by his keenness not to make a fool of himself. As it is, before long, Joe generously puts him out of his misery.

“So Toby, you ever had deep dish?” He asks, flopping a ball of dough out onto the flour-coated countertop with a dull _thwap_.

“Um, no,” Toby says, though it comes out as more of a question considering he’s not entirely sure what deep dish is. Cautiously, he approaches the peninsula, making sure to stay just out of range of the massive flour cloud Joe has created. “No, I don’t believe I have.”

Retrieving a rolling pin from one of the cupboards, Joe points it at Toby and gives him a slightly worrying smirk. “Then you are in for a treat tonight, kid. I make _the_ best deep dish this side of the Atlantic.”

“Don’t let him fool ya,” Betsey says as she comes over to join them. Despite the fact that she’s wearing a rather nice, if a bit worn blouse, she takes a seat at one of the barstools and fearlessly leans an elbow atop the peninsula amid the mess, propping her chin in her palm. “His is the _only_ deep dish this side of the Atlantic. And with good reason, it’s just upside-down pizza in the shape of a pie,” she tells Toby, rolling her eyes for good measure.

“I’ll have you know deep dish is an American classic,” Joe says, wagging the rolling pin in Betsey’s direction before he finally sets to work on clumsily thinning the dough out. “Greatest thing to ever come out of Chicago. Well, after yours truly, of course,” he adds.

“Think we’d all be better off if what came from Chicago stayed in Chicago.” 

Betsey turns to Toby and winks, and he feels a small thrill, the simple pleasure of being let in on the joke; tentatively, he allows himself to smile back at her. Across the peninsula, though, Joe pauses his rolling, calmly pinches a small heap of flour between his fingers, and flicks it at Betsey, splattering her with a light, white coating. Her jaw drops, her mouth left ajar in a perfect, scandalised ‘o’, and Toby has to bite his lip to stop himself laughing.

“Oh, you _bastard_.” Smacking her hand down and rubbing it around on the countertop, Betsey covers her palm in a thick layer of flour and reaches out to slap it upside Joe’s head, but he quickly ducks across the kitchen, darting to the oven and bending over to peer through the glass under the guise of checking on his deep dish; though, Toby can see the laughter he’s suppressing trembling through his shoulders. When he rises back up, Betsey points a powdery but nonetheless menacing finger at him. “I will get you back for that, Joe O’Hara.”

Joe slings her a nonchalant, whenever-you’re-ready grin, and she shakes her head, grumbling to herself as she bustles off towards the loo to try and brush off the worst of the filth. Once she’s down the hall, the door closed behind her, Toby turns back to Joe, and they both burst into a fit of giggles that is utterly befitting for men of their age.

“She’s gonna kill me in my sleep,” Joe says, when the worst of his laughter has subsided, remarkably cheerful despite the dire sentiment. He returns to his rolling once more, stretching the dough out in choppy strides. “Might have been worth it, though, just for that look on her face.”

He sneaks a pleased smirk over to Toby, but just then, there’s a knock on the door. Two light raps. Almost too quiet to even be heard from the back of the house. 

Toby frowns, confused. Sonny had said it was just the three of them—well, four now with the addition of Toby—and they’re all already here. He looks to Joe for an explanation and--

“Hey, uh, do you mind getting that?” Joe asks. “I would but--” He holds up his flour-caked hands and shrugs.

Toby does slightly mind; it seems a bit odd, a bit uncomfortable, answering someone else’s door and welcoming a stranger, but he agrees anyhow, never much of one to be able to say no.

Reluctantly, he makes his way back towards the front door. As he passes by the loo, he hears Betsey cursing colourfully to herself, and his discomfort is momentarily allayed as he allows himself another giggle, a quiet sort of cosy warmth kindling in his chest. He’s only known these people for a handful of hours, but he is growing fond of them quite quickly; they’ve made it difficult not to, even against his best cynical efforts.

The warmth in his chest, though, immediately morphs into the queasy burn of embarrassment when he opens the door and sees who’s waiting on the other side.

It’s Adil.

Adil, stood there, backlit like an angel by the last, golden dredges of the sun’s light, holding a clingfilmed plate of biscuits and blinking dazedly at Toby even as a heavenly smile rises on his lips.

“Mr. Hamilton,” he says, the words tripping off his tongue almost like a laugh would.

Toby’s hand flies up to his hair, fretting at his fringe as he wishes ardently that he’d had the sense to put a bit more effort in and wear something more flattering than a baggy old beige cardie and a shabby pair of jeans. “Mr. Joshi, I--”

Behind him, a door rattles open, and Toby turns just in time to see Betsey slip out of the loo. Over her shoulder, she calls out, “We ain’t on school property, and the kids are outside. None of that ‘mister’ rubbish.”

His cheeks flaring with heat, Toby tightens his grip on the doorknob and turns back to Adil. “I, uh, I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“Sonny and I are good friends, so sometimes I get invited over as an honourary member,” Adil explains. “Though, I have to say I’m happy to see you here.” 

Toby’s heart thuds in his chest, heavy with a fragile fledging of something like hope. “Oh?”

“I was a bit worried that I had overstepped by introducing you to the others, but…” He smiles, and his eyes shine so warm, but Toby deflates all the same. “It seems like it was a good decision after all?” 

Strangely disappointed as he may be, Toby still nods and smiles for Adil because it does, so far, seem to have been a good decision, and he is rather grateful to Adil for taking the chance and offering Toby admittance to this odd little group. Somewhat belatedly, he realises he ought to stop keeping Adil out in the cold and let him in, so with a murmured apology, he hurried steps aside. 

As Adil moves past him, Toby notes that Adil is dressed a bit different than Toby has grown used to in their previous meetings. For a start, he’s got on a pair of black jeans that are remarkably…snug. And secondly, he’s not wearing a jumper. Instead, he has on a denim jacket; it’s just slightly too big for him, but the back is painted in all the most beautiful colours: hundreds of tiny, short brushstrokes like a Van Gogh, all layered together to create an image of a meadow nestled beneath a mountain and cluttered with dozens of little white and yellow flowers. It’s an absolutely stunning piece of art, and Toby feels a touch of awe, studying it as he trails along behind Adil; it seems he had undersold his artistic capabilities more than a little bit.

Just as he is about to ask about the painting, though, there’s a vivid _thwack_ from the kitchen, and a not entirely dignified yelp of pain from Joe. Adil pauses, nearly causing Toby to crash into him; he looks back at Toby with a smile trying awfully hard to be a frown on his lips and amusement in his eyes, and all thoughts of art are promptly thrown out of Toby’s head. All he can do is shrug in response to Adil’s unasked question and follow him the rest of the way to the kitchen, trying to calm his skittish heart.

They arrive in the kitchen just in time to see Betsey—with a smug grin and few spots of flour still littered on her blouse—tucking a turner back into its drawer while Joe rubs miserably at his bicep and grumbles to himself about disproportionate retaliation; though, his demeanour brightens noticeably when he spots Adil. 

“You’re late, Joshi,” he says, though he doesn’t sound even remotely disappointed or truly put-out. “You got the goods?”

Adil lifts the plate in his hands. “Two dozen snickerdoodles, as requested.”

“Snickerdoodles?” Toby asks, frowning as Adil slides the plate across to Joe.

“They’re more an American thing,” Adil tells him. He reaches out to steal the plate back almost immediately when Joe not-so-discreetly lifts one edge of the clingfilm, digs out one of the biscuits, and shoves the entire thing in his mouth. “Just cookies with cinnamon and sugar,” he continues, not missing a beat. “Mostly sugar. Too much sugar, really.”

“They’re Ernie’s favourite,” Joe butts in, his words garbled by the massive amounts of unchewed biscuit still in his mouth. “And no one makes ‘em better than Adil.”

“You’re a baker, too?” Toby asks, sounding just a tad bit too fascinated.

Adil shrugs. “I dabble when I have the time.”

“He’s being modest,” Betsey says, coming around the peninsula and planting a smacking kiss on Adil’s cheek. There’s an odd sort of twisting feeling in Toby’s stomach, but he deftly ignores it as Betsey slings her arm around Adil’s shoulders and adds, “Good enough to be on Bake Off if he wanted.”

Adil rolls his eyes, but he’s clearly flattered, and he wraps his arm around Betsey’s waist in return. His hand rests ever so casually on her hip, and Toby can’t tear his eyes away. Something quite bitter is crawling up his throat, turning every breath he takes thin and sour. He hates to admit it, even just to himself, but…It bothers him, discomforts him how easily they fit together, how comfortable they all are with each other, the rich history that runs between them and beyond him, no clearer sign of it than this thoughtless affection. Toby’s starting off so far behind. He could never even hope to catch up, never hope to understand them on the same level as they already understand each other, and for the briefest moment, he has half a mind to just give up. To march outside, scoop up Charlie and Ollie, and simply walk out before he has a chance to make a fool of himself, trying to squeeze himself into this tight-knit circle that clearly doesn’t need him. 

But digging his nails into his palm, he determinedly casts the dreary thoughts away, refusing to be cowed by their cynicism.

A perfectly timed distraction, Joe chooses that moment to drop a chopping board to the ground with a calamitous rattle. Kicking the refrigerator shut and dumping the mess of objects in his arms onto the nearest countertop, he bends over to pick it up, dusting it off cursorily as he asks, “Bets, think you could give me a hand with these--”

“Oh, not a chance, love. You’re on your own.” 

Smoothly detaching herself from Adil, she gives Joe a teasing wave and a wicked smirk before she slips out the back door to join Sonny and the children. When the door slams shut behind her, Adil turns to Toby, passing him a secretive little smile that warms Toby from head to toe. 

Joe, on the other hand, is far less amused. “Alright, then. You two, get over here and make yourselves useful. Or else dinner’s never gonna be ready.”

Not exactly what anyone could call a pro or even proficient chef, Toby freezes up at the command, but Adil doesn’t hesitate. Setting the cookies aside and safely out of Joe’s reach, he strips out of his jacket, tossing it atop one of the barstools and revealing the faded concert tee that he’s wearing underneath. It fits him surprisingly well for a simple t-shirt, showing off his well-defined arms, and Toby is bitten once more by a fierce jealousy, like a punch in the gut. It should be impossible, the way Adil makes even the plainest outfit look as if it could go down the runway, the way all of his clothes seem tailored to accentuate every last line of his body, the way he makes it all seem so effortless, as if he doesn’t even try.

But, shaking off the fluster of envy and clumsily rolling up his sleeves, Toby dutifully makes his way around the peninsula as well. No sooner has he stepped up to the counter beside Adil then Joe is shoving a knife and a handful of apples at him.

“Chop chop,” is all the instruction he bothers to give Toby before rushing back over to his own station to frantically fiddle with his dough some more.

Admittedly, it hardly takes a genius-level intellect to guess what Joe wants him to do with the apples, but still, Toby glances over at Adil, who’s been given much the same treatment, only with a variety of sweet peppers. He’s wasted no time in lopping off the top of the first pepper and digging out the seeds, his movements confident and precise. Toby tries to copy him, but his work is more than a bit sloppy; he’s nearly sliced straight through his thumb more than once trying to carve out the core when Adil, chuckling genially at Toby’s ineptitude, finally has to intervene.

“Here, try this,” he says, reaching over to lay his hand over Toby’s on the hilt of the knife. 

He may as well have electrified Toby for the way his heart jolts and seizes at the casual touch. A cacophonous jumble of feelings rages to life in his chest like every nerve in his body is screaming all at once—utterly indecipherable, stealing away his breath and closing off his throat—and he can only stare down in a daze at their tangled hands. His skin burns beneath the softness of Adil’s palm.

Gently, Adil nudges Toby’s thumb and forefinger forward until they rest against the flat of the blade on either side. “It’s more stable if you hold it like this,” he explains as he lifts Toby’s hand and carefully poses the blade at an angle over one of the uncored quarters of the apple. Then, he lets go of Toby’s hand just long enough for Toby to swallow a single shallow breath before he takes a hold of Toby’s other hand. This time, he curls his hand over Toby’s, tucking his fingers into a loose claw, and pulls it over to brace against the curve of the apple. “And you use this hand to guide yourself.”

Tearing his eyes away from the spectacle of Adil’s hand atop his, Toby lifts his head to stare in quiet bewilderment at the side of Adil’s head. But almost immediately, Adil glances up, too, and the second his gaze meets Toby’s, he yanks his hand away; picking up his own knife once more, he hurriedly gets back to work.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his head ducked, seeming almost embarrassed, though Toby’s not entirely sure why. If anyone should be embarrassed, it ought to be Toby for not knowing how to do something as simple as cut an apple into slices without assistance, for being so inexplicably affected by Adil’s touch when he clearly didn’t mean anything by it. “I’m sorry, I--I shouldn’t have--”

“No, it’s alright, I just--” Toby clears his throat and takes the cue from Adil, staring resolutely down at his chopping board. “I’m just impressed,” he lies after a moment, his cheeks surely stained a telling, cherry red. “You seem to really know your way around a kitchen.” 

They’re stood close enough that when Adil shrugs, Toby feels rather than sees the movement, and he very nearly shivers at the slight brush of Adil’s shoulder against his. “I can’t take too much credit for that. My mother taught me everything I know.” Though he doesn’t dare look, Toby can practically hear Adil’s smile, and his voice is full of pride, touched by nostalgia. “I used to cook with her a lot. My sister was always too busy studying or at practice, and my brother never had the patience for it, so kitchen duty fell to me. Not that I really minded.”

“That must have been nice.” He cleaves another apple in two and in two again, and a sour-tinged smile sneaks up on him. He knows he ought not to say it, but the words are out before he can stop himself. “I don’t think my mother’s ever touched an oven in her life.”

“Did your father do the cooking, then?” Adil asks, light and innocent.

“No, God no. Him, I’m certain he never even set foot in a kitchen. We, um…” Toby stalls, abruptly realising the fraught hole he’s dug himself into. He doesn’t exactly talk about his family’s circumstances often, tries to avoid it as much as he can, not exactly ashamed but not entirely proud of the world he was raised in either. “We had a chef,” he admits in a reluctant mumble. 

The rhythmic slide of Adil’s knife against his chopping board stalls. “You had a chef?”

“Yes, my…My father was a lord,” Toby says, wincing at how haughty the words still sound despite his best efforts.

There’s quite a long pause in which Toby’s skin begins to buzz with anxiety. Of course, Adil doesn’t seem the type to judge Toby on something like that—something that had been beyond his control and of which he has thoroughly washed his hands of since the twins were born—but nonetheless, he is fearful of what Adil may think of him now; the lingering aristocracy isn’t immensely popular with the general population, after all, and with good reason. His hands a touch shaky, he keeps his eyes steady on the job in front of him, pressing perhaps a bit too hard as he severs another apple down the middle, his knife hitting the board with an echoing _crack_. 

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Adil says at last, and Toby braces himself for the worst. “But looking at you, I never would have guessed that. I mean, you sound posh, but…” His eyes run up and down Toby, subtly appraising his tatty cardigan and his Specsavers glasses, and Toby has to turn away, his body set alight, feverish. “You don’t act it,” Adil adds, slightly teasing.

Toby laughs, a rush of jittery relief torn down his spine even as his skin continues to crawl with shy heat. He lets his eyes slip briefly back to Adil and finds a dashing, cheeky smile waiting on his lips. “I’ll take that as a compliment actually.”

They fall into an amiable silence, then, the only sound between them that of the smooth slice of their knives. Several times, Adil’s elbow knocks gently against Toby’s, but he doesn’t seem to mind, doesn’t move away even an inch. So neither does Toby, even if every bump makes his pulse jump. Eventually, as he begins to settle into the rhythm of the work, Toby lets his eyes drift, and unsurprisingly, they drift to the left and catch once more upon the line of ink spilt down Adil’s forearm. He wonders, if he were to touch it, would it feel different from the rest of Adil’s skin? Would he be able to feel the ink, feel the lines and curves of the characters? He would never dare actually reach out, doesn’t even understand that strange impulse or what lies behind it, but there is one facet of his curiosity that he can’t quite restrain.

“What does it say?” He blurts. Immediately, he wishes he could snatch the words back—hating how foolish and eager the question makes him sound; like he’s just been waiting and waiting for the opportunity to ask, which, well, he has, but Adil doesn’t need to know that. Still, when Adil looks over at him, brows furrowed in confusion, he has no choice but to press on. “Your tattoo,” he clarifies timidly, pointing a helpful finger at said tattoo. “What does it say?”

“Oh, um…” Adil glances down at his arm, blinking at his skin as if he’d forgotten the words were even there. Then, subtly but purposely, he shifts his arm, turning it to hide the tattoo from view. And suddenly, Toby is sick with regret, feeling like a perfect idiot and mentally cursing himself. He should have known better than to ask. What right did he have? He’s only met Adil three times, and already he’s digging after personal information. He hurries to apologise.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, you don’t--” He throws his eyes back down where they belong, shaking his head. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“Toby, it’s okay,” Adil says, patient as ever even as he’s clearly uncomfortable. Gradually, he too returns to his work. “It’s…It’s just a silly quote that I liked in uni.”

Toby’s fairly certain it can’t be too silly if Adil elected to get it permanently inked on his body in a rather prominent location, but he takes the out Adil has so graciously offered him. Or at least, he tries to, because the next thing he knows, he’s asking, “Do you have any others?”

There’s a sharp cough, almost a choking sound, from across the room, and Toby whips around. 

Joe. 

God, he’d completely forgotten Joe was still in the room with them. 

He catches Toby’s eye as he brushes the knots of dough he’s made with some butter mixture, and just like before, he gives Toby a terribly sly, slow smile. Toby can feel the meaning behind it knocking at the back of his mind, begging to be let in, but he turns away, ignoring the fresh flush of heat creeping up the back of his neck.

“Um, one here, too,” Adil says after a moment of hesitation, sounding more than a bit sheepish as he gestures awkwardly to the right side of his chest, along his ribs. “But that’s all so far.”

For reasons he can’t explain, Toby wants, very badly, to ask to see this second tattoo, but that would be wildly inappropriate, no matter how curious he may be, so he wisely bites his tongue. Though, that doesn’t stop him wondering, extensively, what exactly is hiding beneath the thin cotton of Adil’s t-shirt, but when he nearly takes a chunk out of his finger after he gets too caught up in his imagination, he brusquely cuts off all thoughts but those of the task at hand.

His focus renewed, he makes short work of the remaining apples, neatly piling the slices onto the tray—already half-filled with a few bunches of grapes, pre-cut carrots, and celery—Joe had set out for him and Adil. By that time, Joe has finished off his project as well, shoving the garlic knots into the oven and pulling out two pizzas that do look rather more like pies than actual pizzas. Springing them from their form mould, he sets the pizzas aside to cool and jogs over to the back door to call in Betsey, Sonny, and the children.

“Took ya long enough,” Betsey says as she slips through the door and out of Sonny’s coat that had been draped over her shoulders.

“Can’t rush perfection,” Joe counters back, deftly stepping to the side as the torrent of children comes pouring over the threshold.

The first through the door, Nina comes charging over and squishes herself against Adil in a tight hug that he returns without hesitation. She calls him ‘chacha’ and immediately begins telling him all about the newest poem she wrote for the blackbird that has made a nest on her windowsill. Something in Toby’s chest tightens watching them together, but he hasn’t the time to wonder why because a moment later, Ollie comes stomping through the door and makes a beeline straight for him, his cheeks pink from the cold and his crooked smile bright with glee that makes Toby’s own lips twitch up. He’s already jabbering excitedly, but whatever he is so keen to tell Toby is quickly forgotten when he spots Adil. It stops Ollie dead in his tracks, eyes blown wide and mouth agape with wonder as he stares at Adil and Nina. 

“Mr. Joshi!” He shouts as he barrels over to Adil, abandoning any thought of Toby. 

Adil takes it in stride as Ollie bounces up and down at his feet and begins peppering him with a hundred and one questions, but a touch of guilt-laced embarrassment stabs through Toby; it’s the weekend, Adil ought not have to be a teacher on his day off, when he’s just trying to relax with his friends. Toby starts to reach for Ollie, an apology ready on his tongue, but he stalls when Rosy and Charlie finally straggle in, trailing slightly behind; there’s a smile on Charlie’s face as she drifts along after Rosy—it’s a small, shy smile but a smile nonetheless—and Toby is about bowled over by relief. It’s such a simple thing, but to see his daughter, so wary and remote at times, having perhaps made a friend—it makes Toby’s chest swell with soft joy and pride and nearly puts a tear in his eye. It’s a much-needed confirmation that maybe he isn’t fucking it all up after all.

Charlie, too, starts to make her way over to Toby but abruptly redirects when she notices Adil, almost tripping over her own feet in her haste to get to him. She joins Ollie in his eager interrogation, and as he watches Adil interact with his children—thoughtfully answering their every question and listening avidly to the clumsy story they’re telling over top of each other—that same tightening in his chest, that same stutter-step of his heart plagues Toby again, his throat thick with an emotion he can’t name, an emotion he can’t even parse as positive or negative but that nettles at him all the same, making it difficult to breathe.

But thankfully, before Toby’s airway closes off completely, Joe lifts a stack of plates down from the cupboards and declares dinner officially served. It’s a bit of a stampede from there, everyone jostling to pile their plates high and claim a seat at the table. After helping the twins fill their plates and dutifully shovelling in a few of the healthier fares alongside their heaping slices of pizza, Toby quickly makes his own plate and shuffles into the dining room.

The table is a tight squeeze; three extra chairs have been crammed in where there had hardly been enough room for six before, and Charlie and Ollie have wedged themselves onto one chair together. There are only two open seats left: one at the head of the table on the opposite side of the room and one beside Adil. Toby quickly heads for the former, but he pauses on the way, his attention caught by the baseball that sits in a pristine glass case on the dusty mantle. There’s something scribbled on it in blue ink, but the letters are indistinguishable, nothing more than a series of loops with zig-zags in between.

“Signed by Ryne Sandberg,” Joe’s voice chimes up from behind him. Toby startles, feeling a bit like he’s been caught snooping even though the baseball is clearly meant to be on display. “One of the last homers he hit before he retired. August 1st, 1997.”

“Oh…” The words mean nothing to Toby, but he works up a polite grin for Joe’s sake. “That’s nice.”

Joe’s cocky, crooked smirk drops at Toby’s subpar enthusiasm, and grumbling to himself about Brits and bad taste, he rolls his eyes, smoothly slides past Toby, and…steals Toby’s seat. Or at least, what was going to be Toby’s seat. Which Joe must have known because he tosses Toby a rather smug look as he settles down and picks up his fork. And so, Toby’s left with no option but to unsubtly slink back around the table and sheepishly take the last remaining chair beside Adil.

His sudden hesitation doesn’t make sense; he’d stood shoulder to shoulder with Adil just moments ago in the kitchen, but now, sitting next to him, Toby’s skin itches from his proximity, even if Adil is far too busy chattering with Nina about poetry to pay any attention to Toby. Something about seeing him with Charlie and Ollie has brought back that same strange jealousy from the first time they met, though…It feels different this time. Less bitter and more…God, Toby doesn’t know what it is, but just thinking about it makes him nauseated, almost like vertigo, as if he’s on the edge of some terrible precipice, looking down at a storming sea and a maw of jagged rocks keen to tear him to bits. And he has no idea how to pull himself back from the ledge.

Before too long, though, he’s mercifully dragged out of his churning thoughts when Charlie plunks her plate down next to his and unceremoniously clambers into his lap. “Charlie, what--” 

In answer to his unfinished question, she sticks her tongue out at Ollie across the table and viciously chomps down on one of her apple slices, preceding to gnash it between her teeth like some kind of wild animal making a threat. Toby has to bite back a laugh. 

“Manners, Peanut,” he chides without even a bit of real admonishment behind the words.

She happily ignores him and goes on chewing noisily. He rolls his eyes but merely presses a kiss to her temple and picks up his fork to eat while his food is still somewhat warm. With Charlie’s dangling feet drumming against his shins to keep him grounded, Toby is able to put a wall between himself and his disorienting thoughts, and he forces himself to tune into the conversation Sonny and Betsey are having across from him instead. It proves a quite pleasant distraction from the buzz of anxiety that shoots through him each and every time he catches a hint of Adil’s soft laugh. And soon enough, Toby is even joining in, offering Sonny a spirited debate on the relative merits of Chopin’s short, intimate compositions in opposition to Beethoven’s elaborate, sprawling symphonies, and though he quickly finds his rudimentary knowledge far outmatched, he also finds that he doesn’t quite mind. 

Toby’s not gregarious by any means, but he’s never had too much trouble making polite conversation when necessary, and he’s only grown better at it as he’s schmoozed his way through dozens of donor events hosted by the university. But those conversations have always felt like a chore, something he had to endure for the sake of sociability. Talking and laughing with Betsey and Sonny, though…It feels as easy, as natural as talking with Emma or Theresa. It seems almost too good to be true as another stream of his anxiety is stoppered and a sprig of hope begins to grow in its place. Perhaps they are simply humouring him, perhaps they simply pity him, but despite his previous doubts, he can no longer deny how nice it would be, what a comfort it would be to call them friends. Because as much as he loves Emma and Theresa, there are some things about his life, about being a parent, that they simply cannot understand, things that Betsey, Sonny, and Joe know without even having to ask.

They’ve somehow moved on from discussing classical music to listening to Betsey recount the latest, scant few child-appropriate plot points of Eastenders when Charlie lunges across Toby, almost knocking his glass over as she reaches for a grape on Adil’s plate. Toby manages to pull her back before she can snatch it but not before Adil notices her attempted theft. The familiar heat returning to his cheeks where it might as well make a permanent home, Toby hastily apologises to Adil and turns to chide Charlie, a bit stronger this time, but Adil only laughs it off.

“Here,” he tells Charlie with an indulgent smile, picking up the grape and holding it up between two fingers. “You can have it.”

With her chin held high and a haughty look of triumph thrown in Toby’s direction, Charlie reaches for the grape again. Just as she is about to grab it, though, Adil moves the grape away, placing it in the palm of his other hand and closing his fist around it, only to reopen his fist a moment later to show Charlie his now-empty palm. It’s a simple trick, as far as magic goes, but Charlie still gasps in shock, and she giggles in delight when, a second later, Adil reaches out and pulls the grape from behind her ear, offering it to her once more. She accepts it happily, pops it in her mouth, and then immediately jumps down from Toby’s lap, following the rest of the children who have run off, at Ernie’s command, in search of the cookies Adil had brought.

For a moment, Toby can ignore the strange butterflies Adil has put back in his stomach as he smiles after her, but when he turns back to the table and finds Adil smiling in much the same way—as if he’s just as relieved to see Charlie making a place for herself among them, as if he feels the same pride that Toby does—his heart quite literally clenches, and his breath abruptly abandons him. But in the same moment, a wave of warmth washes over him, not the clammy nausea he’s used to but something cosier, something almost…pleasant and hopeful.

It’s a convoluted mess of emotion, terrifying in its strength, and Toby can’t even begin, nor does he want to begin to untangle and understand it. And he can’t bear the sincerity of Adil’s smile or the softness in his eyes, so instead, desperate to change the unspoken subject, Toby asks the first question he can think of.

“So, uh, you do magic, too, then?”

Adil shrugs, though the gesture is more bashful than nonchalant. “I had a boyfriend in grad school who was into magic,” he admits, and Toby nearly chokes on nothing but air, feeling as if he’s been whacked over the head. “I asked him to teach me a few tricks to impress my niece, Anjali. She was two at the time, so she loved that sort of thing, and nowadays, it’s a good way to entertain my students, so I try to keep my limited skills sharp.”

Toby tries for a smile, but it comes out flat, more a grimace than anything. Of course, he still nods along and interjects appropriately, even laughing at times as Adil proceeds to tell him about the time he tried doing proper magic at Anjali’s birthday party, but his mind is caught on that one small word that had slipped from Adil’s mouth so easily: _boyfriend_. 

Adil is gay. Or, at least, he’s interested in men. It’s rather surprising, unexpected, and the knowledge sits like a particularly coarse rock in Toby’s throat. It shouldn’t bother him; it’s really none of his business, and there’s nothing wrong with being gay—for God’s sake, his own best friend is a lesbian, and he’s never had a problem with that—but…For some reason, it’s different with Adil. And he hates himself the moment he’s even had that thought, hates how much it makes him sound like his father and all those other wretched men who spew hate at anyone who dares differ from them, but he can’t help it. He likes Adil, he honestly does; Adil is a kind, intelligent, charming man, and he and Toby get on well, but knowing this about Adil makes him…uncomfortable.

Maybe it’s just shock, maybe he just needs a bit to acclimate, and in a week’s time, it’ll hardly ruffle a single one of his feathers, but for now, it’s as if an alarm bell is screaming in his head, begging him to run, trying to warn him of some disaster he can’t yet even imagine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: it's time for a birthday party and a bit of drama...


	6. i want you to be happy, free to run, get dizzy on caffeine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Britney Spears voice]: Oops, I did it again, I posted a 10k chapter, got lost in the sauce...
> 
> Anywho, it's time for a party! Okay, so this chapter is a bit of a hot mess, and it's emotionally all over the place, but...Well, here it is! Hopefully, it's at least partially enjoyable!
> 
> Chapter title from "Youth" by Glass Animals. (And bonus points for anyone who can spot the James Acaster quote I shamelessly pilfered and paraphrased.)

It’s only as Toby is knocking on Sonny’s door to pick Charlie and Ollie up that he catches sight of the note he’d scribbled on his hand that morning; he’d written it to remind himself to stop by Tesco _before_ he picked the twins up so he could collect a few last-minute supplies for their party tomorrow. Of course, by the time he’s noticed, it’s too late, and he’s in the middle of cursing to himself when Sonny opens the door.

He looks weary, a scrap of paper crumpled in his hand, but at the sight of Toby, his lips immediately twitch up into a generous smile, faintly amused as he crosses his arms and leans against the doorjamb. “Everything alright?”

“Not exactly, um…” Toby hesitates, biting his lip. This is the first day Sonny has looked after the twins for him; after nearly a week of begging from Charlie and Ollie, who were quite keen to see their new friends again, he’d finally relented, smothering his anxiety long enough to shakily text Sonny to ask if he wouldn’t mind two extra tag-alongs this Friday. Given that Sonny had been kind enough to agree, it would be terribly rude of Toby to now abuse his kindness and ask him to watch them longer than he had agreed to. Especially when he already has his hands full with three other children to keep an eye on. But shopping with the twins is close to a nightmare: Ollie wants to buy everything he sees, unable to keep his hands to himself, and Charlie has a habit of getting bored and wandering off when Toby turns away for even half a second. 

“I have a bit of a problem,” he admits reluctantly. When Sonny nods for him to go on, he adds, “I’ve just remembered that I need to go to the shops and grab some things for the party. I hate to ask, but do you mind if I leave them with you for just a little while longer?”

Sonny shakes his head and holds up a hand. “Not a problem at all.”

“I’m so sorry,” Toby insists, though it’s hard to truly feel ashamed when Sonny is looking at him with such sympathy. “I’ll only be an hour, tops, I promise.”

Waving off the apology, Sonny’s smile softens a touch. “Take all the time you need, I don’t mind.”

In the short time that Toby has known him, Sonny has proven himself again and again to be a relentlessly good man, and though Toby doesn’t feel entirely worthy of his kindness that he gives so freely and lavishly, on this occasion, he has to accept it. “Thank you. It won’t happen again, I swear.”

Before Toby can turn to leave, though, Ollie comes flying down the stairs, making a ruckus akin to that of a herd of charging wildebeests. He bounds towards the door, his arms thrown wide as he chants, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

There’s hardly a moment between the time when Toby first sees Ollie and the time when his knee touches down on the ground, his own arms opened to catch his son as he barrels straight into him. Scooping him up and getting back to his feet, Toby does his best to keep a hold of him as he squirms excitedly.

“Daddy, look!” He says, wiggling his little fingers about an inch in front of Toby’s glasses. 

Once he’s taken a hold of Ollie’s flopping hand and is actually able to focus on it, Toby sees that his nails have been painted a bright shade of blue that almost perfectly matches his school jumper. His lips tick up in an irrepressible smile. “Oh, how lovely,” he tells Ollie with genuine admiration as he studies the rather neat paint job. “It suits you wonderfully. _Very_ pretty.”

If possible, Ollie’s face lights up even brighter. “Nina did ‘em for me! She said you can do all sortsa colours! I wanna do purple ‘cause it’s my favourite, but Nina didn’t have any. Can we get some, Daddy?”

“Of course we can,” Toby says, adjusting his grip and shifting Ollie to his hip. “I’m on my way to the shops now, so how about I pick up some for you?” The question is hardly out of Toby’s mouth before Ollie is nodding with so much enthusiasm that Toby is slightly worried he may give himself whiplash. “Alright, then. You stay here with Mr. Sullivan, and I’ll be right back.” 

He moves to set Ollie down, but Ollie only tightens his grip. “But I wanna go, too!” He cries. “I wanna pick it out! Please,” he begs, stretching out the ‘e’ and tugging on Toby’s sleeve. 

He puts on a perfect pout, his bottom lip jutted out and his big brown eyes pleading, and well, any chance Toby had of refusing goes straight out the window.

\---

Ollie has always been a rather decisive child. He’s not prone to hesitation or uncertainty as his sister is, and he tends to know exactly what he wants and when he wants it. But he’s been standing in front of the display of nail varnish in the middle of Tesco for nearly seven minutes now, picking up and putting back almost every single bottle at least once, examining each of them with the utmost scrutiny. At this point, he has managed to narrow it down to two options: the vibrant, royal purple that he came for or a bright, peachy pink that he had been entranced by the second he saw it.

His little face scrunched up with stagnated frustration, he at last turns to Toby, who has been patiently watching off to the side, leant against the empty trolley, his chin in his palm, unbearably fond and wholly endeared. Ollie holds both bottles up as high as he can for Toby to see and asks, “Which one, Daddy?”

Kneeling down, Toby lifts up his glasses and pretends to solemnly ponder the bottles for a brief moment before setting loose his smile once more. “Tell you what,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially. “How about we get them both? Call it an extra little birthday present.”

Ollie’s mouth drops open, the perfect comedic picture of shock as if he could have never imagined such an outlandish possibility. But his surprise only lasts for a moment before he’s jumping up and down with unrestrained glee. They get a few stern looks from their fellow shoppers, but Toby can ignore the scorn when his son is happy and hugging him as tightly as he can. Once Ollie has thanked him about a hundred and one times, Toby stands and holds his hand out for the bottles to place them safely in the trolley, but Ollie, clutching them to his chest, insists that he carry them himself.

After a quick detour to buy a similarly-priced set of hair clips for Charlie, they finally get on with the shopping he came to do. As it turns out, letting Ollie hold the nail varnish is an excellent way to keep him focused, and Toby is actually able to go about his business in relative, efficient peace, without having to patiently explain over and over again why they can’t buy everything Ollie takes a liking to.

He manages to run through nearly his entire list in record time, so obviously, it’s when he’s become complacent—taking a moment to waffle over which brand of ice cream would offer him the best value for his money—that his luck runs out. 

A short gasp is all the warning Toby gets before Ollie has taken off, running down the aisle at full-tilt. Carelessly, Toby tosses the carton of ice cream in his hands into the trolley and hurries after his son, panic jumping to life in his chest, but he stalls in his tracks when he sees what exactly has caught Ollie’s eye.

Of course this would happen. The odds of it are slim, but the world has never had a problem with bending the rules for the pleasure of torturing Toby. For a moment, he honestly wants to simply turn and walk away, but he very much can’t do that, so pushing back his fringe and straightening his waistcoat, Toby makes his way over to where his son has accosted Adil much as he would make his way over to throw himself on a grenade.

Ollie is in the middle of showing off his blue nails and new nail varnish to Adil when Toby draws up, and every muscle in Toby’s body goes tense with instinctive fear for his son. But Adil merely flashes that golden smile of his and tells Ollie how wonderful his nails look and dutifully praises his varnish selections, and as the worry rushes out of him, Toby knows he should have never thought for half a second Adil would respond any differently.

When Adil’s eyes lift to him, however, a different anxiety rises in Toby’s throat. He gives Adil a plastic smile that feels a breath away from breaking and greets him as politely as he can, but even as they make small talk, the discomfort from last week still itches warmly at the back of his neck, and he hates it.

He does his best to ignore it, to swallow it down as Adil asks, “Where’s Charlie?” 

“She’s still with Sonny.” Toby reaches out and places a hand on Ollie’s shoulder, quietly pulling him back from snooping through Adil’s trolley. “Ollie and I just popped out to get a few last-minute supplies for their party tomorrow.”

“You should come, Mr. Joshi!” Ollie exclaims, practically dancing with his renewed excitement. “It’s gonna be lotsa fun! There’s gonna be games and cake and everything!”

“Oh, no,” Toby interjects firmly before Adil can even begin to respond. Adil’s eyes flick back up to him; it’s a shy, almost wounded look that Toby can’t entirely decipher, but swift guilt bites into him all the same. He hurries to clarify, “Er, I mean, I’m sure Mr. Joshi is very busy, Ollie. He probably already has plans for tomorrow.”

Not to mention it would be terribly inappropriate, and if he were to attend, Adil would almost certainly come under fire, plagued by accusations of favouritism. Which, thankfully, Adil seems to understand as well because he takes Toby’s lead and smiles ruefully down at Ollie. “I’m afraid so,” he says, extraordinarily gentle, though it doesn’t stop the heavy frown that cracks across Ollie’s face, his excitement cruelly severed. “But that’s alright because we already had our own party in class on Wednesday, remember?”

Crossing his arm and tucking his chin in against his chest, Ollie grumbles in reluctant acceptance and sullenly kicks at the scuffed tile floor with the toe of his shoe. He’s upset, not so much that he doesn’t let Toby drop a hand on his head and tousle his curls, but still, the gesture does little in the way of cheering him up like it usually does.

Toby’s pity for his son is interrupted, though, when a young man comes skidding around the corner and into their aisle. Adil turns to look, too, and they both watch as the man ambles over and casually dumps his armful of Cheese and Onion crisps into Adil’s trolley.

Toby’s stomach plummets. 

Glancing briefly at the excessive amount of crisps, Adil turns to the man—his boyfriend, dear God, he must be Adil’s boyfriend, and Toby is ill at the very thought, his heart trapped in his throat; he feels, inexplicably, like a bug that has been unceremoniously squashed beneath an uncaring heel as he looks over the man. His trendy flannel shirt and ripped jeans, the thick, messy knot of dark hair sat atop his head, his breezy, lopsided smile: he practically oozes with cool confidence, and the sight of him beside Adil…Toby suddenly feels woefully inadequate.

Adil gives the man a flat, reproachful look. 

“What?” The man’s tone is a touch defensive, but he throws his hands up as if he’s just as exasperated as Adil. “They’re _90p_ Clubcard price! Be a fool not to take advantage of that!”

Adil rolls his eyes, but there is an irrepressible gleam of fondness to it, and he doesn’t quite manage to quell his smile; shaking his head, he turns back to Toby and sweeps out a flippant hand towards the man. “My brother, Dhani.”

Relief detonates like a bomb in Toby’s chest. 

“Oh, good,” he breathes as his heart begins to wind back down. _Of course_. Adil had told him just last weekend about his little brother who was living with him to save on housing costs while he finished his final year at Oxford; Toby feels a bit of a tit for having forgotten so quickly and fallen so easily into panic. _Wait_ \-- “Uh, I mean, good, good to meet you,” he stammers. “Um…Dhani. It’s a pleasure.” He sticks a hand out, and despite the obvious confusion taking over his face, Dhani takes it. 

“Sorry, but who are you?” He asks bluntly, head tilted slightly to the side as he studies Toby, and God, how did Toby not see the resemblance at first? It’s clear as day when he looks now. Their faces are made up of all the same pieces, but Dhani holds his so differently from Adil.

“Oh, right, Toby Hamilton,” he answers, giving Dhani’s hand two good shakes before pulling away and dropping his hand back onto Ollie’s shoulder.

“Hold on--” Dhani, perking up with recognition, points a disbelieving finger at Toby. “ _You’re_ Toby?” Without waiting for Toby’s response, he spins on Adil as his goofy grin blossoms once more. “Oh mate, really? This is the bloke you f--” Dhani grunts in pain as Adil’s elbow jabs into his ribs, and his playful expression morphs into one of righteous indignation. Some unspoken conversation passes between the two of them, and after a moment, Dhani cracks, sighing in surrender. He turns back to Toby, his demeanour ironed out and his levity packed away. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Hamilton,” he says, clean and cordial; though Toby can still hear a hint of a smirk leaking in around the edges, and his skin burns with placeless embarrassment.

“We’ll let you get back to your shopping now,” Adil adds in a tense haste. He offers Toby one last smile before grabbing his brother by the arm and dragging him along, back the way they came. Dhani, stumbling over his feet, turns back just long enough to give Toby a frilly wave and a cheeky wink.

It is a baffling encounter, to say the least, and Toby is left standing there in the middle of the aisle, frozen by the odd slosh of emotions and questions tumbling through his head. What did Dhani mean when he’d said _you’re Toby_? Had he known about Toby? Had Adil told him about Toby? Why did he seem so amused? And what was that little staring match about? What had Dhani been about to say when Adil cut him off? Each question only leaves Toby more and more confused, and he’s not entirely sure what he wants the answers to be.

There’s a tug on his sleeve, and Toby looks down to find Ollie staring up at him. Once he has Toby’s attention, he raises his arms in a wordless request, and Toby obliges. With Ollie settled once more on his hip, Toby shakes the strange meeting from his mind and returns to his trolley. 

“Daddy?” Ollie asks. Toby hums in acknowledgement, and Ollie’s finger promptly stabs him in the cheek. “Why is your face red?”

\---

The day of the party starts off well enough; Toby wakes up early to make the twins blueberry pancakes, and after they’ve each devoured a considerable stack and gotten themselves covered in syrup, he shuffles them off to the bath, one after the other. Once dressed and groomed, Toby sits them down in the living room with a pack of crayons and a ream of paper to keep them busy, but they’re both practically vibrating with excitement, staring at the clock between scribbles as if they could make the minutes tick by faster by force of sheer will alone. And Toby shares their anticipation; though, his is decidedly more anxious than eager. 

He just wants everything to go right. It’s quite a simple party he’s planned—just a little get-together at home with family and friends, a few games, and a couple of cakes—so there’s not much chance for anything to go wrong, but still…He’d always hated his birthday as a child. It had always been a day he simply had to get through, and it never felt like his own, and not just because he had to share it with Freddie. But he wants it to be different for his children: wants them both to feel equally special and showered in attention; wants them both to have fun and make it their own perfect day that they can look back on fondly; wants them both to know how grateful and happy he is that they came into the world and changed his life six years ago.

However, it is only eleven o’clock, and the party’s not set to begin until one, so there’s only so much fretting Toby can do before everything is in place and all that’s left is for the guests to arrive. If given his choice, he would spend the next two hours relentlessly straightening decorations and double, triple, and quadruple checking the supplies, but he’s only started his first pace around the living room when Ollie catches his hand and pulls. Despite the protest of his knees, Toby obediently takes a seat beside him, criss-cross on the floor, and accepts the orange crayon he shoves at him.

He’s actually managed to relax a bit—concentrated as he is on helping Ollie fill his paper with hundreds of dainty blooms of every shape and colour—when there’s a knock at the door. The twins perk up, their drawings forgotten in an instant, and placing his crayon down, Toby checks his watch. It’s a quarter to twelve. Theresa had said she and Susan planned to arrive a bit early, but he hadn’t imagined she meant _this_ early.

With the twins hot on his heels, Toby hastily shuffles over to the door and throws it open, but it’s not Theresa and Susan waiting on the other side. It’s the postman, struggling to keep a hold of a parcel that’s nearly half his size. Toby hasn’t ordered a thing in weeks, let alone something so preposterously large, but he signs for the delivery all the same and takes the unwieldy parcel off the postman’s hands. Once he’s juggled the box into the living room with the twins’ clumsy help, he carefully peels back the tape.

Neatly packed inside the parcel are several smaller parcels, all expertly wrapped in non-descript emerald paper and adorned with a mess of gaudy gold ribbons and bows; each one is complete with a nametag, the twins’ names written out in an ornate, flourishing hand. A seed of disappointment, tinged with a dull anger, takes root in Toby’s stomach, but Charlie and Ollie don’t share his distress; clambering over each other and Toby, they dive at the parcel, pulling out whatever they can get their hands on and tearing carelessly into the paper; he doesn’t bother to stop them.

They each unwrap a sizeable assortment of cashmere jumpers and corduroy trousers, as well as a little black patent leather purse and a pair of glitzy opal earrings for Charlie, and a crystal figurine of an elephant and a sleek silver watch for Ollie. Toby puts on a convincing enough smile as they hold each present up for him to see, collecting the paper they toss about and balling it up between his hands, squeezing it smaller and smaller. When all the presents are open and the twins have quietly gone back to their colouring, Toby methodically breaks the boxes down, picks up his phone, and heads out to the recycling bin.

His mother picks up on the first ring.

“Did you get the parcel I sent?” The bustle of the hotel lobby sneaks in behind her voice, and the sharp clack of her heels on the marble floors punctuates her words. “It was meant to be delivered this morning.”

“Yes, Mother, I did.” He lifts the bin lid and tersely tosses the boxes in, unsatisfied by the flat _thud_ they make as they hit the bottom of the bin.

“Wonderful, and? What did they think?”

Toby sighs, pushing up his glasses as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “They were…Pleased.”

“You don’t sound so sure about that.” 

There’s a muffled sound as his mother ostensibly places her hand over the phone and addresses someone on the other end. Digging his nails into the heel of his palm, Toby peers in through the back window to where the twins are still sat around the coffee table, crayons in hand, and he waits until the murmur goes quiet before he answers. 

“What do you want me to say? They’re six. They prefer toys and sweets.”

“That doesn’t mean they can’t have nice things as well,” she retorts, lofty as ever.

Another sigh. “We’ve talked about this before, Mother.” Toby slouches back against the brick, ignoring the way the fibres of his shirt catch against the rough surface and the tension building up behind his temples. “I’ve told you a hundred times not to buy them expensive gifts like this. They don’t need--”

“Oh, honestly, Toby,” she interrupts, and as his jaw clenches, Toby can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “What is the point of having all this money if I can’t use it to spoil my grandchildren?”

Well, that does it.

The fragile ice beneath his feet cracks, and he plunges into the cold, long-choked ire beneath.

“The point is that money isn’t love!” He half-shouts, pushing away from the wall, throwing his hand up in stunted frustration. “You don’t show them that you love them by just throwing expensive gifts at them. You show them you love them by being thoughtful enough to get them a gift they actually want, not whatever has the highest price-tag. You show them you love them by knowing that Charlie doesn’t have her ears pierced, and Ollie likes giraffes, not elephants. But most of all, you show them you love them by actually being here for their damn birthday to give them the gifts yourself!”

Silence is all that answers him, and Toby’s heart pounds in his chest, a dizzying mixture of fury and fear driving his pulse too fast. He feels sick, he feels guilty, he feels like he’s finally managed to spit out an acrid bug that has been stuck in his craw for far too long. A door clicks shut on the other end, deafeningly soft. He squeezes his eyes closed and drops his head; shame runs down his spine, quick and sharp as a whip, and his anger is swiftly buried once more.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, the words so familiar and rotten on his tongue. “I’m sorry, I--I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t mean--”

“You’re right.”

Toby’s fingers still where they have begun fretting at a loose piece of mortar in the brick. He pulls the phone away from his ear and checks the screen, bewildered. “What?”

“You’re right,” his mother repeats, sounding just as thrown off balance as he is. “I should have come.”

Toby waits, hung on half a shred of hope, but his mother says nothing more. 

“It’s alright,” he tells her, deflating further. “I know you’re quite busy with the hotel…” He shifts his weight and kicks a lumpy pebble into the grass, not entirely sure how he ended up being the one comforting her, but too tired to fight anyhow. She’s trying, in her own way, he knows that. Of course, he wishes, after six years, she could try a little harder, but she does deserve some credit. After all, she hadn’t denounced Toby when she found out about the twins or tried to cover them up as if they were some salacious scandal, and that in itself had been a tremendous display of support, more than Toby had ever expected. And she does love them, even if she doesn’t always know how to show it.

But still, _Freddie_ had found the time…

“Just…Come up when you can,” he says at last.

“Perhaps next weekend,” she offers, a delicate olive branch.

“Perhaps.” He draws up a thin, conciliatory smile, though she can’t see it. “They’d be happy to see you…Better late than never.”

Once they’ve made their stilted goodbyes, Toby waits for the tell-tale tone before lowering his phone and tipping his head back, none too gently, against the brick. Hounds of memory are snapping and snarling at the gates of his mind, but he determinedly turns away from them. He won’t let his past, his problems infect this day; his children deserve better than that.

He takes a deep breath—four count in, four count hold, four count out—then he turns and heads back inside. And he’s just in time, it would seem, as the twins have shoved a chair up to the cupboards, and Charlie is currently hoisting herself up onto the counter, one knobby knee at a time. Toby manages to shoot across the kitchen and scoop her up just as her devilish little fingers are reaching for the first cake box.

He sets her down beside Ollie, who puts on a fair show of contrition, but Charlie merely pouts, her arms crossed over her chest. “We just want to see ‘em,” she insists.

“And you will,” Toby promises her, dropping a kiss to her head before ruffling her hair. “Later, when all your guests have arrived and it’s time to eat.” He throws a quick glance at his watch. Nearly ten after twelve. “Come on now.”

He herds them back into the living room, and they run in helpful circles around him, asking him about the time and prodding him incessantly as he cleans up and tucks away their presents and crayons. When he has the place in ship-shape once again, he spins on the pair of them and dutifully chases after them—up and down the stairs, around and around the sofa—pretending to be their evil giant as they flee in giggly, fleet-footed terror.

He’s just snagged Ollie around the waist, lifting him off his feet, when the bell rings. Abandoning his pursuit of Charlie, he tucks Ollie under his arm like a stack of books—albeit a squirming, still giggling stack of books—and makes his way over to get the door. Ollie stalls in his attempts to get free when the door opens, and a gaping grin breaks out on his face as he spots who’s on the other side.

“Aunt ‘Resa!” He shouts, his little legs flailing as he reaches for her, and Toby happily releases him, so he can throw himself into Theresa’s waiting arms.

“Oh, happy birthday, darling!” Theresa coos as she wraps him up and presses a kiss to his cheek. “My God, look at you, how much you’ve grown.”

As Theresa fusses over Ollie and Charlie—once she too has come barrelling over—Toby turns to greet Susan; she’s gazing down at Theresa with such tender fondness that Toby can’t help but smile, immensely happy for Theresa even as something in him twinges at the sight of the obvious, fresh love that stretches between them. He holds out a hand, and when her fingers wrap around his, Susan’s grip is strong and calloused.

“I’m glad you could make it,” he tells her, hoping she can hear how much he truly means it. She and Theresa have been together for a few months now, but as much as Theresa has been keen to gush about her over the phone, she’s remained somewhat hesitant about bringing Susan around as her girlfriend. Which, given the way Theresa was raised, is more than understandable, but still, he’s glad to see her taking perhaps the first step towards being a bit more confident, a bit less terrified of judgment.

“Glad you invited me,” Susan retorts, giving him a friendly smirk that’s laced with a hint of shy gratitude. She hands over a stack of presents to Toby. “Now, you gonna let us in or not?”

Once she and Theresa are actually through the door, the twins waste no time in turning their attention to Susan, barely letting her over the threshold before swarming her with questions about the Buchanans’ horses and begging a peppermint off her. Toby, placing their gifts atop the dining table, tries to tell them Susan is not a candy dispenser and ought not to be treated as such, but much to his surprise, she produces two of the sweets from the frayed pocket of her flannel shirt and happily hands them over to the twins; she tosses a wink in Toby’s direction for good measure.

With half an hour left before the party is set to begin, they find themselves settled around the coffee table. Theresa and Susan sit on the sofa with Ollie curled up in Theresa’s lap and Charlie happily squeezed in between her and Susan. Toby, left on his own opposite them, tries not to be too childishly disheartened by that, but his success is moderate at best. No matter, they spend the next half-hour chatting idly, catching up and listening to the twins gush about the party to come and the presents they already received from Toby on Wednesday. 

Ollie is in the middle of flashing his now-slightly-chipped, filled-in-with-marker nails for Theresa and Susan when Emma arrives. As usual, she doesn’t bother to knock, though Toby can’t really complain about that; he is the one who gave her a key, after all. She sweeps in with gift bags lining her arm. The twins pop up in an instant, racing over to her and trying with exactly no subtly to get a peek in the gift bags as she leans down to hug them.

Emma has hardly had the time to even set down her things before Joe and Ernie are arriving as well. And Sonny and Nina after them. Then Betsey and Rosy. And shortly thereafter, the house is flooded by a small gaggle of children from Charlie and Ollie’s class, whose parents all inexplicably drop them at the door and turn to leave without bothering to give Toby more than a cursory evaluating glance. 

It’s a pleasant enough day, peculiarly warm even for early October, so the party quickly abandons the indoors—where Toby had painstakingly set up all the decorations that morning—in favour of romping around in the back garden. Though, as he chats with Joe, watching his children run about with their friends and laugh at the top of their little lungs, he really can’t be bothered about the time he wasted taping up streamers and bunting. Nor can he truly call it wasted. So long as his children are happy, he is, too. So long as they are smiling, he can choke back the pitiful sorrow, the indulgent misery fighting its way up his throat.

Soon enough, though, the modest array of snacks Toby had set out on the patio table have been picked clean, and collecting the empty dishes, he must reluctantly abandon his conversation with Joe and head inside to replenish them. He cuts open a package of pretzels and is pouring them into a bowl when he remembers the pink ladies he picked up last weekend which the twins have been loath to even touch. Might as well slice a few of those up, offer at least one healthier option, see if he can’t foist the excess onto the guests as opposed to inevitably having to toss them in the bin. Taking out a chopping board, he pulls a knife from the block, probably for the first time since he bought the set.

“Well, look at you, Chef Hamilton,” Theresa drawls as she and Susan slip through the back door. She walks over, peering down at Toby’s work and nudging him with her elbow. “Since when do you know how to properly handle kitchen utensils, Mr. Coffee-and-Biscuits?”

“Oh, shut up,” Toby says with a laugh, even as his cheeks begin to grow warm. He keeps his eyes on the movement of the knife and remembers, like a brand and with a shiver, the gentle pressure of Adil’s fingers wrapped around his own as he neatly quarters one of the apples; for some reason, his lips bend up into a smile. “Adil taught me a few things.” His steady movement falters as he feels Theresa’s gaze snap up and land on him with heavy, prying interest. He hurries to add, “If you’re going to be in here pestering me, you could at least help.”

He nods towards the bags of crisps piled in the corner and then at the still empty bowls, and Theresa, rolling her eyes, walks over and scoops up two of the packages, handing one over to Susan; she makes no move to open her bag, though, merely hugs it to her chest as she comes back to hover beside Toby. 

“Who’s Adil?” 

There’s a distinct note of curiosity in her voice that is more than a little troubling, and it triggers the bear-trap of panic around Toby’s heart.

“Oh, um…” _God_ , why did he mention Adil? Something in him knew better, but it just seemed to have slipped out before he could stop himself. And now, his skin burns as a consequence. “He’s, uh, the twins’ teacher, and um…” Toby hesitates, his tongue darting out across his lips. He shrugs. “A friend, of sorts.”

“You’re friends with the weans’ teacher?” Susan asks, looking at him a bit oddly as she pries open her package of Wotsits and dumps them into the nearest bowl.

“Well, not really…Or kind of. I mean, we’re not--It’s just, he’s friends with the other single parents, so…” Toby waves his knife in a looping gesture and tries to ignore the jittery nausea rising up in his chest. “He came to dinner with all of us last week, and we got to talking, that’s all,” he finishes, perhaps a bit too quick.

Out of the corner, he sees Theresa and Susan exchange a look before Theresa turns back to him, leaning against the counter in a terrible performance of nonchalance. “What’s he like, this Adil?”

Toby frowns. “What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t but tell me anyway.”

She flashes that sly smile she knows he can’t say no to, and sighing, Toby scrapes the apple slices from the chopping board onto a fresh plate; he ought to arrange them nicely, but he can’t be bothered at the moment. “I don’t know, he’s…nice. The twins love him, and he seems to be a really good teacher, despite appearances.” 

Theresa blinks at him. “What do you mean by that?”

Since she doesn’t seem keen to actually do as he had asked, Toby gingerly extracts the package of Walkers from her grasp and reaches for the scissors once more. “Just that, well, he doesn’t look much like a teacher.”

“Well, what does he look like, then?”

Toby scoffs. “A goddamn fairytale prince. Honestly, the first time I met him, he literally had flowers in his hair, and the bloody birds were singing,” he grumbles, upending the bag over the last remaining bowl, a bit too carelessly as bits and crumbs bounce off the rim and scatter across the countertop. “He’s ridiculously handsome. Face of an angel. I feel like an ogre in front of him.”

“You think he’s handsome?”

 _Great_. Now there’s a keen hint of curiosity leaking into Susan’s voice, too. Her eyes are narrowed, one brow raised as she studies Toby with canny precision, and Toby is beginning to itch under the combined weight of her and Theresa’s gazes. So, he turns away from them, carrying the chopping board and knife over to the sink. The alarm bells are springing to life in his head, calling for an immediate retreat, but his tongue is of a different mind, and the truth pours out before he can bite it down.

“Well anyone who saw him would,” he explains. “He’s got these stupidly soft brown eyes that make you feel so _seen_ , and he’s got all this perfectly tousled hair that you want to run your fingers through, and his smile is warmer than any summer day and more beautiful, too, and he wears these ridiculous jumpers that fit him so well, and he’s terribly smart and kind and charming, and even though he makes me feel odd, it’s so easy to talk to him, and he’s funny and sincere and talented, but he’s modest about it, and he’s good with the twins, and I know I ought to be too old to feel this jealous, but it…” Toby trails off as he turns around to find Theresa and Susan staring him in undisguised incredulity. He tugs his collar away from his throat and tosses his eyes to the ground. He’s said far too much, shown himself for how pathetic and insecure he truly is, so he simply shrugs and finishes lamely, “It’s not fair.”

After exchanging another pointed glance with Susan that Toby can’t puzzle out, Theresa takes a step closer to Toby, laying a hand on his arm; there’s a tender frown twisted on her lips, and her eyes are liquid with pity.

“Toby, dear…Are you sure it’s jealousy you’re feeling?”

Toby can only stare blankly down at her. “What?” He shakes his head. “Of course. What else would it be?”

“Well, I don’t know,” she muses casually, levelly, gently. Almost as if she were speaking to a child. “Have you considered that if you find him attractive, maybe that’s because you _are_ attracted to him?”

She may as well have punched Toby in the gut. 

Knocking her hand away, he stumbles back, his hip colliding painfully with the edge of the countertop. His heart is thrumming in his chest, beating fast enough to hurt, and what little air he’s able to choke down won’t stay in his lungs as he glances between the two of them. Their eyes have softened, regarding him with startled concern at his overreaction, so he straightens up and forces out a shaky laugh, but it’s stiff and hollow, unconvincing to even his own ears.

“No, God no, that’s--” He waves a flippant hand. As he moves away from Theresa, he keeps his gaze carefully planted on the ground and clears his throat, ignoring the lump of fear now lodged in his windpipe. “Don’t be ridiculous. I mean, that would be wildly inappropriate, and anyway, I’m not--I’m not like _that_ , I’m not a--” He cuts himself off. Taking a breath that does nothing to steady him, he clenches his jaw tight enough to crack a damn molar and picks up the nearest bowl to stop his hands from fidgeting. “I’m just being silly and jealous, okay? That’s it, that’s all it is.” 

“Toby--”

“Could you please take these back outside?” He asks with a feeble smile, not waiting for an answer before he shoves the bowl into Theresa’s hands. “I have to, um…Loo.”

He flees to the stairs as fast as he can without running and throws himself up them, two at a time. He’d probably be embarrassed by his behaviour if he could think of anything but the rush of his pulse and the strange, insistent panic eating him from the inside out. He bursts into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him, and throws the tap on and…And he stares down at the gushing water, his fingers gripped around the edge of the vanity, knuckles a ghastly shade of white.

Perhaps he ought to be over the toilet because he feels as if he could be ill at any second.

What the Hell were they playing at? Asking him an absurd question like that. It’s absolutely laughable. Of course Toby’s not attracted to Adil, his stomach clenches at the mere idea. He’s just envious. As any man would be when faced with another man who so clearly elucidates all his own shortcomings, embodies all of the things that he is not and wishes he could be. And so what if he thinks Adil is handsome? It’s an objective truth, and acknowledging that doesn’t mean Toby’s in any way interested in Adil. Especially since being interested in Adil would first require that Toby was interested in men, which he simply is not. Theresa and Susan just don’t understand, they couldn’t possibly understand what it’s like for someone like him, someone plagued by their own mediocrity. He’s always been painfully jealous of other boys; it didn’t mean anything then, and it doesn’t mean anything now. Theresa and Susan were wrong, completely wrong, but he knows they meant no harm by it; the best thing to do is forgive and forget, push the entire conversation out of his mind and pretend it never happened, save himself and Theresa the future discomfort. 

Decision made, Toby determinedly severs the unhelpful thoughts, pulls up his sleeves, and sticks his wrists under the cold water, hoping to temper a fraction of the queasy heat that has seized him. But he can’t spend the entirety of his children’s birthday party holed up in the bathroom out of embarrassment, so when the water fails to help, he shuts the tap off, dries off, and pushes himself back out into the hall.

He’s halfway down the stairs when he hears the back door close and the sound of stomping steps followed by a more sedate tread. Then, Betsey hisses, “How dare you, Sonny Sullivan? How dare you do that?”

Toby freezes in place, one foot in the air, fingers tight around the bannister. 

_So much for a nice, quiet party._

“It was my choice, Bets,” Sonny answers, composed but bruised beneath.

“Yeah, and what about my choice?” Betsey fires back. “Who said I wanted ya doing that for me? I never asked for this.”

He knows he shouldn’t, knows it’s none of his business, and he ought to retreat to his room until the argument passes over, but…He doesn’t. Instead, he takes another step down and peers around the wall, into the dining room where Betsey and Sonny are facing off.

“You didn’t have to ask,” Sonny says, shaking his head gently. “I just want to help.”

Toby doesn’t have to see Betsey’s face to know she’s scowling as she places her hand on her hip. “For Christ’s sake, I’m not some charity case.”

“I know that,” Sonny retorts, his placid demeanour slipping up for just a moment. “That’s not what this is.”

“I don’t need ya patronising me, I--” She pauses, takes a moment to collect herself and put a bit of iron in her voice. “I’m fine on my own. I can make it work.” There’s a wispy _thwap_ as she tosses something down on the table between them. “I ain’t taking this.”

“Betsey, please…” Reaching down, Sonny picks up whatever it was that Betsey threw down and holds it back out to her, his eyes pleading. “Just think about Rosy, she--”

“Don’t you finish that fucking sentence.”

Betsey’s voice is ice cold, humourless in a way that Toby has never heard from her and fractured by the slightest tremble. Sonny holds his hands up in surrender, already heavy with regret. “That’s not what I meant, you know--”

The stair gives a pitiful creak as Toby shifts his weight, and Betsey and Sonny’s eyes snap straight to him. Caught out, he flushes with shame and awkwardly slumps down the rest of the stairs, stammering out an apology as he tentatively walks over to them. A bit flustered himself, Sonny offers him a tense nod, accepting his apology, but Betsey spares only a moment to glare at Toby before she marches over the door; the dishes rattle timidly in the cupboards as the door swings shut behind her.

The resulting silence stretches thin and taut between Toby and Sonny, neither of them quite able to even look in each other’s direction. But Toby can only bear it for a few seconds before the guilt reaches into his throat and pulls his voice up.

“Is everything okay?” He asks, rather stupidly.

“Not quite,” Sonny answers with a sad smile. Noticing Toby’s interest, he discreetly tucks the small white envelope he’d been offering to Betsey into his pocket before he pulls out a seat and sits down heavily. He runs a hand over his face, looking more tired, more defeated than Toby has ever seen him.

Hesitantly, Toby pulls out a chair, too. “Do you…Do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s not my story to tell.” 

All the same, Toby can guess it well enough on his own. Single mother, hourly wage, an envelope stuffed with twenty-pound notes: the pieces aren’t difficult to put together.

“Alright…” He nods, wrapping his hands together in his lap, not quite sure where to go, if he should offer comfort or a bit of privacy. As it is, he does neither.

Sonny is quiet for a long moment, his fingers tapping out a staccato melody on the tabletop. Then, he sighs, closing his eyes and shaking his head in exasperation. “She’s so damn stubborn. Wouldn’t accept a parachute if she was falling out of the sky.”

“I’m sure she has her reasons,” Toby ventures unhelpfully. As someone who’s been frequently accused of being rather stubborn himself, he’s inclined to stick up for Betsey, though Sonny certainly doesn’t mean to insult her.

“She can’t see kindness for it is,” Sonny says, his frustration already bled away, replaced by plain melancholy. “She’s always looking for the strings attached to it. Even when there are none.”

Toby doesn’t have a good response for that. He’s not sure there is one. But, regardless, anything he could have said is stopped short when the back door opens once more and Joe strides in. He quickly catches wind of the stunted air and looks half ready to do a one-eighty, but it seems whatever he came in for is important enough to fight past the discomfort.

“Bathroom?”

“Upstairs. Second door.”

As Joe’s thumping steps hustle away, up the stairs, Sonny turns back to Toby. “You should get back to the party.”

Toby takes it for what it is.

“Yeah, probably…” Pushing back from the table, he stands gingerly and starts towards the door, but some peculiar impulse makes him pause beside Sonny, and he reaches out, dropping his hand on Sonny’s shoulder. “Give her some time, she’ll come around, whatever it is.”

When Toby steps back outside, into the mild sunlight, he tries, valiantly, to shake off the sense of gloom that is creeping in on him. It’s always difficult, the twins’ birthday, and the circumstances of this particular day haven’t exactly made it any easier. But he can’t let it get to him. He owes it to his children to chuck on a brave face and ignore the catcalls of his past, to put on a smile and stomp down the insurgent bitterness that lashes out from the lonely child still locked away inside his chest. This day is about them, not him.

But as he surveys the back garden—the children all shrieking in merriment as they run about, making damn sure Toby’s irascible neighbours will like him even less than they already do—he spots Betsey in the back corner; she’s leant against the fence, nursing a Diet Coke as she watches Rosy, who’s kicking around Charlie’s new football with her, showing her how to dribble it, though Charlie’s mostly stumbling over her own feet. It’s a sight that makes Toby’s heart bloom with sweet joy and airy affection, but Betsey’s eyes are sombre as she regards her daughter, her red lips twisted down. He’s not entirely sure he ought to, but a prick of guilt nudges Toby to approach her anyhow.

Though she’s certainly noticed him drawing up beside her, Betsey doesn’t bother to even spare him a glance; it’s not exactly an encouraging sign, but he forges ahead.

“Are you alright?”

“Leave it, Hamilton,” she says, flat and dull, without an ounce of her usual spirit. 

It’s all wrong, like a kick in the gut, but Toby acquiesces. Side by side, they stand in the noisy silence for a long, stiff moment. He understands her inclination—the desire to shut off and ignore the problem entirely—but his regret won’t let him leave the matter alone; he had stepped in on a private moment, and he needs to make it right, even the score.

“The twins are adopted,” he blurts. At last, Betsey looks at him, but now, he keeps his gaze turned away, fixed on Ollie, hoisted up on Susan’s shoulders, giggling with delight as he flaps his arms like a scrawny bird. “Well, not technically. My name is on their birth certificates, but…They’re not _biologically_ mine. My friend…She was going through a difficult time, so she got a bit drunk one night and decided to go home with the first man who would have her. A few weeks later, she realised she was pregnant.” His eyes flicker down from Ollie to Theresa. He can’t help but feel he’s betraying her, even if only revealing vague details of the story they’d sworn never to tell, but it’s for a good reason. “She didn’t know what to do. Her parents were quite old-fashioned, they would have disowned her if they found out, and she wasn’t ready to be a mother, anyhow. She came to me for help, and…I told her I would take them, so she’d know that they’d gone to a good home and be able to see them every now and then. She tried to talk me out of it, told me I didn’t need to fix her mistakes or clean up her messes, but that’s not what I was doing. It wasn’t because I pitied her or because I felt responsible for her.” The honesty burns on his tongue, unnatural and clunky, but shoving down his discomfort, he turns and meets Betsey’s guarded eyes. “It was because I cared about her, because I loved her and I was willing, I _wanted_ to do anything I could for her.”

“I appreciate you telling me that, but--” Betsey shakes her head and glances away. “Don’t try and defend him. This is different.”

“How so?” She tightens her grip on her drink, the aluminium crinkling mutely under her fingers, but she doesn’t answer. At the risk of overstepping even more than he already has, Toby presses on. “Look, it probably isn’t my place, and I’ve only known you all for a short time, but I’ve seen enough to know Sonny’s a good man, one of the few honest, decent people I’ve ever met. Whatever he did, he wasn’t trying to hurt your pride or belittle you. He was just trying to help, to make things easier for you because you’re his friend, and that’s what friends do. They lend each other a hand when they need it, and they don’t expect anything in return.”

Betsey shakes her head once more, but Toby can tell he’s struck a nerve, punctured through the wall she’s so keen to keep up. “I don’t deserve him,” she whispers, almost to herself, her head ducked in self-imposed shame.

“Well, that’s not how he feels,” Toby says, as soft and sincere as he can. He’s only hung around them a handful of times now, but it’s clear as day, even to him, that Sonny and Betsey both are entirely gone for each other. But, as he spots Susan approaching, Ollie still perched on her shoulders, Toby can only manage one last piece of underqualified advice. “Just, try not to hate him for it.”

Betsey gives him a look like she wants to tell him off or maybe spill her guts or maybe run away as fast as she can, but however she feels, she has to put on a placid mask when Susan comes to stop in front of them with a crooked grin. 

“The wean has a message for you,” she informs Toby, releasing her hold on one of Ollie’s legs to reach up and tickle his belly.

Once he’s through giggling, Ollie quite persuasively declares that it is well past time for cake and presents, and Toby can’t help but agree, quite eager for a distraction. The moment he has Toby’s approval, Ollie monkeys his way down from Susan’s shoulders and takes off, sprinting across the lawn, shouting the news at the top of his lungs as he barrels towards the door. Toby, shaking his head but amused nonetheless, follows after him.

“How many fizzy drinks has he had?” He asks Susan.

“Three that I saw.”

A stab of anxious guilt lashes through Toby’s stomach—he ought to have been monitoring the children more carefully, making sure they weren’t gorging themselves on every unhealthy snack they could get their hands on—but he swiftly brushes it off. They’re certainly in for a disaster when the sugar wears off, but it’s their bloody birthday; he can let a few overindulgences slide.

It’s a bit of a mess, trying to fit everyone in around the table; the party is hardly large, but Toby’s dining room is decidedly even less large, and he has to precariously squeeze himself through the crowd, cake boxes lifted above his head, to deliver them in front of Charlie and Ollie. It’s well worth it, though, when they both light up at the sight of their cakes: a red velvet cake in the shape of a fox head for Charlie and a simple round strawberries-and-cream cake dotted with plenty of pretty flowers for Ollie.

Once he’s gotten all of the candles lit and Emma’s doused the lights, Toby steps back and pulls out his phone to record the moment as everyone begins to sing. They’re only halfway into the song when Charlie loses her patience and blows her candles out in one fell swoop. Toby’s heart clenches, wonderfully overburdened by love, as Ollie hastens to copy her and the last line of the song fades into a chorus of laughter.

With Sonny and Susan’s help, the cakes are swiftly divvied up and dished out with a scoop of ice cream, and the crowd disperses, spreading out through the kitchen and living room to find a comfortable place to dig into their slice. Toby, sneaking a bit of both cakes onto his plate, wanders around for a bit, surveying the room, soaking in the pleasant atmosphere. Or the mostly pleasant atmosphere, as there is one storm cloud lingering by the back door. 

Shoving a forkful of half-melted ice cream in his mouth, Toby picks his way over to Freddie. He’s never seen someone look so dour while holding a slice of birthday cake, but if anyone could manage it, it would be Freddie. As Toby slides up beside him, Freddie takes a sip from his can of Tizer, wincing as if it were whiskey burning down his throat, and Toby tracks his unsubtle gaze to where it’s fixed upon Emma and Joe, talking innocently on the sofa; he can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes.

“Why don’t you just tell her you want to get back together?” He asks, maybe a bit too forthright if the wide-eyed stare Freddie turns on him is any metric to go by.

When his initial surprise has worn off, though, Freddie ducks his head and slumps further against the wall. “I can’t.”

“Right,” Toby says, nodding. “Because being honest with her would be too reasonable, and it’s better if you just sit here and stare at her while another man chats her up.” Given what little Joe’s told him about Ernie’s mother and how focused Joe is on raising Ernie, Toby knows Joe likely has no actual interest in Emma, but it can’t hurt to push Freddie just a bit.

“She’s the one who ended things,” Freddie points out, rubbing his thumb over a shallow dent in his can.

“Freddie, she broke up with you because you’d been dating since you were nineteen.” Toby tries his best not to sound too exasperated, but they’ve been over this before, and it’s not as if Emma had cut things off abruptly, without a word of explanation. “It wasn’t because she stopped loving you. She just needed some time to be herself and grow beyond her father’s shadow.”

“Precisely.” Freddie takes another bleak sip of his Tizer and lets his eyes slip back to the living room. “She’ll come back to me if and when she’s ready. I can’t push her before that.” 

For a moment, Toby is rather shocked by how mature his brother sounds. It’s probably actually the most rational thing he’s ever heard Freddie say. Not at all like the man who once cruelly dumped Emma for fear of the backlash she might receive from their societal peers before realising his mistake and grovelling for weeks to win her back. Though, this far removed from their father’s influence and with the wisdom of nearly thirty years accumulated, Toby supposes this day was bound to come; he’s strangely proud of Freddie all the same.

Freddie sets his can down and picks up his fork to prod dispassionately at his cake and soupy ice cream before he continues, “It wouldn’t be fair to her, anyhow. The kind of life I live, in and out of the country constantly, gone for months at a time. We’d never see each other, and she deserves someone who can be there for her. She deserves someone better.”

 _Ah, there it is._ That charming self-martyrdom Toby’s used to.

“You’re a diplomat, not an MI6 operative, despite what the twins might think,” Toby reminds him. “You could make things work, you always did before.”

“Maybe that’s not enough now, maybe it never was.”

Toby’s never stocked much faith in love, at least, not the romantic sort; it seems most often to be nothing more than a slow journey to realising that you don’t like someone as much as you thought you would, which in turn becomes a lesson in learning to settle for mere tolerance, but Freddie and Emma…They’ve always had something fabled—an easy chemistry founded on steady friendship, a slow-built gravity that has cleared them an inevitable path into each other’s arms. Whether it takes days or months or years for them to realign, they will end up together, and they will be happy together in a way that so few people will ever get the chance to be. It’s simply undeniable, their love.

But before Toby can even begin to make that point, Freddie abruptly changes the subject. 

Of course he does. Toby can’t really blame him.

“It’s a pity Mother couldn’t make it.”

 _Pity is one word for it_ , Toby thinks to himself, but he only shrugs, not keen to get into his feelings on that matter. He saws off another bite of his cake and stabs it with his fork. “Well, someone has to look after The Halcyon in your absence.” 

Freddie hums in faint agreement, though he’s no doubt thinking, as Toby is, that Mr. Garland is more than capable of commanding The Halcyon on his own for one day, that it is, in fact, his job to do so. But he tactfully chooses to abandon that thread of conversation and says instead, “You know, I would have loved to have a party like this when we were children.”

Toby stalls, a forkful of strawberries-and-cream lifted halfway to his mouth as he blinks stupidly at his brother. “Are you joking?”

Freddie looks quite thrown by Toby’s disbelief, almost caught off guard by it. “No. I--I mean it,” he says, somewhat hesitant. He sweeps his fork out, gesturing to the tame celebration around them. “This is nice.”

“Nice?”

“Yes, nice,” Freddie repeats, shifting his weight and unable to meet Toby’s eyes even though he was the one who so carelessly brought this topic up, as if they don’t typically skirt around any mention of their childhood like the bloody plague. “It’s a real party, a proper party. Full of people that actually care about the twins and want to be here.” In evidence, he nods to where Charlie is stood in front of Theresa and Betsey, bouncing on the balls of her feet and babbling a mile a minute as she shows off the silly moose keychain he had brought back for her from his most recent assignment in Finland. “Do you ever remember being that happy at one of our parties?”

The caustic memories Toby has been diligently stamping down all day surge up with a vengeance. 

He doesn’t really remember being that happy as a child at all, let alone at their birthday parties. Everything was so stiff and formal, no space for fun or enjoyment, nothing like the whimsical, festive affairs described in so many of Toby’s books. Their parties were extravagant, of course—piles of expensive gifts, platters of rich and lavish foods, a sprawling guest list that always reached well over one hundred—but that extravagance was hardly for his and Freddie’s benefit. They were given no input; their individual desires went unasked for and unconsidered; they were expected to be happy with whatever they got and stand by with an obedient smile, two proper little puppets. It had always been their party only in name because, at the heart of it, their birthday had been about their father. Every year another hollow display, a chance to flaunt his wealth and play at familial prosperity, an opportunity to inspire envy and trot out Toby and Freddie like a pair of show ponies, though that particular burden had always fallen more heavily on Freddie’s shoulders. It only became worse as they grew older, and now, even as an adult, Toby can’t help but be soured by the thought of all the joy they missed out on, all the innocent fun and delightful memories they ought to have had in place of this lingering discontent.

When Toby doesn’t answer, Freddie clears his throat and straightens up, and Toby braces himself. He knows Freddie’s been working up to something, something that will push them even further into these uncharted conversational waters than he already has. As a small kindness, a mercy for them both, though, he keeps his gaze trained down on the mess he’s made of his plate as he flagrantly tramples across the fragile emotional barrier that has stood between them for so long. 

“You’ve done a good job for them,” he says, quiet but earnest. “You’re a good father, Toby.”

Despite the precautions, it still hits Toby like a sucker punch.

He takes a moment to reel in the shock, something like nausea pressing against his ribs as he tries to steady his breath. It’s a simple sentiment, one he’s heard from Emma and Theresa a hundred times before, but something about hearing it from his brother…It pries open a locked door hidden somewhere deep inside his chest, ripping apart the calcified fortifications he’d spent years building around it, and the rusted emotions that barge out threaten to consume Toby whole.

“Thank you, Freddie.” It takes everything in him to wring the thin words out without letting out the sob packed down in his throat as well. With shaking hands, he sets his half-finished cake down on the table. “Pardon me, I have to--”

He doesn’t bother finishing his sentence; they both know any excuse he gave would be a lie, and they’ve both had more than their fair share of honesty. So, for the second time that day, Toby flees in his own home, his head ducked as he bustles past his guests, desperate not to catch their eyes. As he passes her, Theresa reaches a hand out, tries to stop him, but he waves her off and pushes on up the stairs. He can’t let his children see him cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you say anything, yes, Toby is a hypocrite, but it's not his fault; his brain cells are only compatible with other people's problems.
> 
> Also, I'm sorry this was so long despite just being a series of conversations.
> 
> Up next: Toby makes Freud proud, friends lend a helping hand, and a little bit of honesty and silliness never hurt anybody...


	7. just like a lightning from the sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, reaping my few precious childhood memories for content? It's more likely than you think.
> 
> Should I have split this one into two chapters? Probably. Did I? No. So, uh, strap in lads because this is another chunky boy! And it's a bit of a mess again, probably the messiest one yet...I'm so sorry. I swear the next chapter will be more coherent and manageable...Hopefully. 
> 
> But, on the bright side, this is our first sort of Adoby-focused chapter, can't believe it only took us 50,000 words to get here! (Which, um, here's where the teen rating starts to come into play a little bit, fair warning.)
> 
> Chapter title from "Lollipop" by The Chordettes.
> 
> (CW: Brief allusions to/discussions of child abuse.)

_Everything is cloaked in shadow, but Toby isn’t afraid. For once. There is safety in this dark; there is a warmth here that reaches out to him, strong arms that hold him so close, so dear; there is a familiar voice that soothes him, enthrals him as he’s laid down upon his bed, nestled in his sheets that no longer seem so stiff and cold against his bared skin._

_The warmth follows him down, settling on top of him and sending a shiver through him. The weight should be restrictive, caging, but Toby feels anything but trapped. He lifts his hands, and his fingers twist in the soft, itchy knit of a woollen jumper as he pulls the warmth closer, pushes up to meet it, needy, impatient. The heady scent of forest and spice fills his senses, and his heart pounds, a staccato witness to this unordained rapture; the tempo comes, though, not from panic but from…Anticipation, unbearable anticipation._

_The first kiss is barely a brush against his lips, a wisp of connection; it sets Toby alight._

_A shallow gasp parts his lips, his body held taut on a razor’s edge as a leg slips between his own, as long fingers comb back through his hair and run, reverent, along the line of his jaw. The next kiss is slow, so painstaking and tender that something in him cracks wide open, flooding his veins with raw, starving passion. It is clumsy, then: eager, noses bumping together, the gentle scratch of hair against his chin, but Toby doesn’t mind; he melts beneath the warmth, surrendered to it entirely, blissfully._

_Paint-flecked hands touch him with detailed reverence—his neck, his chest, his hips—planting seeds of light all over his fallowed body, sowing sweet benedictions across his lonely skin, raising sprouts of long-buried relief in the furrows between his ribs. Each careful caress is enough to drive him mad and not nearly enough at all. There’s a plea curled up on his tongue, a prayer in the shape of a name: a name that sounds like salvation and tastes like devotion, a name that his voice aches to hold, a name that begs to slip from his heart into the sacred air between them. But he holds it back, waiting, savouring._

_He fumbles against the wool, rucking it up and throwing it away to get at the smooth, heated skin beneath, his stunted palms pressed flat against toned muscle, cupped over the curve of a waist, thumb brushing over a splash of black ink. He wants more. He wants everything. He wants the warmth to surround him, to take it inside him and hold it until he forgets he was ever without it. His unchained hunger has devoured him, an irresistible ocean set loose and dragging him under its insatiable waves, but he can breathe; finally, he can breathe._

_At last, the coy fingertips trace a leisurely, burning path down his chest, across his stomach, dipping lower. A blinding arc of desire courses through him, and he can’t bite his tongue any longer._

“ _Adil_ \--”

Toby jolts awake, his heart thrashing against his ribs, his chest heaving with gulping breaths as a brash barrage echoes above him, a sound like the world is ripping apart at the seams. The house shudders timidly around him as he sits up, fear rising in his throat before the muddling shroud of sleep drops from him. He recognises first the rain—throwing itself against the thin windowpanes in harsh, whipping sheets—and then, the lightning—shattering through the room, aberrant flashes of veiled light, seeming to come in time with his erratic pulse.

A storm. Just a storm.

Still, not the most pleasant way to be woken up.

As the startled panic begins to drain from him, taking its sweet time, he turns to his left and squints at the clock on his bedside table. Four twenty-three. He’d only been asleep for an hour at most, having stayed up half the night, slumped over his desk, to transcribe his backlog of research notes and crack in on grading his students’ latest assignment. Normally, he wouldn’t mind the interruption. It is the weekend, and he quite likes a good thunderstorm, particularly at night. He’s always enjoyed watching from the cosy safety of his room as the leaves turn up and the boughs begin to sway; as the raindrops are spun into a shower of marigolds by the restless streetlamp across the way; as the lightning takes turns jumping from cloud to cloud and bursting against the low-hanging, violet sky. But he’s meant to be at Betsey’s by nine tomorrow morning, or well, this morning, and at this point, he’ll be lucky to end up with even five hours of sleep. The storm shows no signs of letting up any time soon, though, so it’s more likely that he’ll end up lying awake indefinitely, until his eyes are scratchy and sore and his head is fit to burst under the condensed gravity of his exhaustion and anxiety. 

Flopping back down with a groan, perhaps a touch melodramatic, Toby throws an arm over his eyes to block out the lightning’s persistent, maddening dance, hoping for a moment of peace. But the second his eyes are closed once again, the dream he’d been so abruptly roused from comes back to him, vivid and visceral.

Adil. 

He’d been dreaming about Adil. 

About Adil in his bed, Adil on top of him, Adil’s hands on him.

Hasty shame effuses his body, and he lowers his arm; a slimy, pallid heat creeps into his cheeks as he stares up at the flickering ceiling. These sorts of dreams are not new to Toby. There had been plenty of them in his youth at Eton, even some in his early days at Oxford, and they had always been the same: dark, hushed, timid, wandering touches traded like guilty whispers, like something stolen. And it had always been the same when he woke up: confusion and embarrassment sitting heavy in the back of his throat, making a mess of his thoughts, and staining his cheeks red when, later in class, he caught the eyes of the boys whom his curious mind had cast alongside him in the bizarre fantasies. Those dreams, of course, had never meant anything. They had been nothing more than the inevitable outcome of an idle, adolescent subconscious, running on jealousy and making do with what it had; after all, there were no girls to be acquainted with at Eton, and as for at Oxford…Well, old habits.

He had thought he’d finally outgrown such dreams, though. The last one had been several years ago, before the twins were born, but now the same, familiar self-contempt rings through his head as revulsion slithers thick in the hollow of his stomach. Or, well, revulsion is the closest name he has for it—the potent, insistent pull in his gut that makes his skin itch and his fists clench—but he’s not sure that’s entirely right.

Something about this particular dream nags at him as he rolls onto his side and pulls the duvet back up around his shoulders. It wasn’t so different from those that came before it; it featured all the same bits and pieces, but…It’s still so sharp, pinned at the front of his consciousness, the images playing on loop like slides in a possessed projector. His dreams have always faded, details quietly slipping out of his grasp, from the moment his eyes opened, leaving him with only vague impressions, half-memories. But this one…Christ, he can still _feel_ it. Every imagined touch is like a fresh brand stuck on his skin, pawing at his attention. Perhaps because it is just so _wrong_. Meaningless as the dream may be, a mere coincidence of opportunity, Adil is the twins’ teacher. The other dreams had always been about boys that he had envied from afar, boys he rarely if ever spoke to. How on Earth is Toby supposed to face Adil on Tuesday when he arrives to pick the children up? How is he meant to speak to him when such lurid, inappropriate images are wedged in his mind?

He shrinks with preemptive humiliation, hugging his arms around himself while the rain continues to thrash at the window. It’s all Theresa’s fault. She’s the one who put the ludicrous idea of fancying Adil in his head and left it to chew him up. And chew him up it has, despite his best efforts to shred and toss out every memory of that disastrous conversation. He’s only seen Adil a handful of times in the past two weeks and only on school property, but each time, as they began to chat, Theresa’s words had inevitably resurfaced in his thoughts.

His queasy agonising is dropped unceremoniously when another ear-splitting peel of thunder cracks overhead; though he knows now to expect it, Toby still jumps, gazing up at the trembling ceiling, wondering how much more it can withstand. The rumble has yet to entirely dissipate when he hears the hesitant, anticipated squeak of a door opening down the hall, followed by the muted creak of the floorboards under delicate but hurried steps. He sits up, and a moment later, his door swings open. In the patchy light, Charlie peers back at him, teary-eyed and shy. Standing there, in her little unicorn-dotted pyjamas, with Adobe clutched like a lifeline to her chest, she looks so terribly small, so terribly lonely; it’s a sight that eats Toby up inside, guilt and despair like battery acid burning through the core of him.

“Come here, Peanut.”

She needs no further convincing; rushing over, she clambers up onto the bed and all but throws herself into Toby’s open arms. He wastes no time wrapping her up, holding her as close as he can. When the duvet is pulled snug around them and her head is tucked securely under his chin, she draws up her knees and curls up against his chest, her ear pressed over the sturdy thrum of his heart. With every flash and rumble, she flinches minutely, and her fingers clutch tighter at the fabric of his t-shirt; his heart breaks anew each time. Unable to do more, he strokes her tangled hair and rubs her back, whispering a jumbled litany of reassurance.

Nothing helps. 

The storm rages on over them, and whatever comfort Toby is able to offer Charlie is immediately undone by each new roll of thunder. Few are as bad as the first that awoke him, but it’s quite a gale nonetheless; he’s honestly a bit surprised Ollie hasn’t scrambled in to join them; though, the kid has always slept like the dead, snoring away the moment his head hits the pillow. As it is, there’s no chance of either Toby or Charlie getting even a scrap of sleep while the cacophony is still beating against the walls on all sides, so he decides to try something else.

Charlie grasps at him as he moves away from her, a devastating knee-jerk panic clear on her face as she tries to pull him back to her; his heart kicks in his chest, and he pauses and folds his hand over hers. “There’s something I want to show you,” he explains, knowing her curiosity will get the best of her. “May I?”

Despite her wary frown, she trusts him. Throwing off the duvet, she tucks her hand in his and lets him lead her over to the window. As he pushes back the curtains and reaches for the blinds cord, though, she ducks behind his legs, covering her eyes with her free hand.

“It’s alright,” he tells her as he pulls the blinds open. He squeezes her hand softly. “It’s okay, look.”

She’s not so easily convinced this time. Only once Toby has picked her up and sworn to her in a hundred ways that there’s nothing to be afraid of, that he wouldn’t ever try to scare her, does she tentatively pry open her eyes. When she does, quiet awe swiftly takes over her features, and she reflexively leans forward, pressing her hand to the rain-speckled glass as webs of lightning fracture the sky, the whole world aglow with its lavender light for a half a blink and reflected in her wide eyes.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” He asks, a smile rising on his lips even as his arms begin to grow sore and he struggles to keep a hold of her. 

Charlie nods slowly, her gaze chasing around the sky, trying to catch every flash of lightning before it disappears. He can’t blame her; it is a rather dazzling display that Mother Nature has decided to put on for them. Then, one particularly sharp strike slices through the clouds, a bit too close, and she baulks slightly, her new wonder temporarily cut out by old fear. 

“It can’t hurt you,” Toby promises her, holding her tighter and pressing a kiss against her temple. “You’re safe in here, and as long as I’m around, I will never let anything hurt you.”

Chipping her eyes away from the window, she turns to look at him, studying him intently for a moment. “I know,” she says as she wraps her arms around his neck and lays her head on his shoulder. “I love you, Daddy.”

In the morning, the sleep deprivation will certainly exact its revenge on him, make him miserable and useless—he’s much too old to still be pulling all-nighters like he did in uni—but right now, he couldn’t care less. For his daughter, he would stay awake forever if he had to. 

“I love you, too, Peanut.”

\---

Toby is nursing his fourth thermos of coffee—no more awake, only vaguely nauseated from the copious amounts of caffeine sloshing around in his empty stomach—when he steps out of his car and cautiously approaches Betsey and Joe; they’re stood on the pavement beside the rented removal van while they argue, from what he can hear, about who is going to be responsible for driving the rather massive thing. 

“--chance in Hell I’m getting behind the wheel of that thing,” Betsey is insisting, waving her arm up and down to demonstrate, somewhat redundantly, the glaring size disparity between herself and the van. 

“Yeah, well, I already drove it here and endangered hundreds of lives doing it, so I did my bit.” 

“Oh, come off it. Can’t keep using that excuse. You’ve lived here for a year now, you know damn well which side of the street you’re meant to be on.”

They both fall silent when they finally notice Toby shuffling up beside them. Betsey looks as tired as Toby feels as she scans over him with a critical eye, her lips twisted down and a hand on her hip, before she announces, “You look like shit, love.”

Toby only huffs, though it’s far closer to a laugh than a scoff, and he lifts his coffee in mock toast. “Thank you for noticing, that’s what I was going for.” 

It’s nice, to be able to joke with Betsey, to snipe playfully back at her. He’d been worried, after what he’d overheard and their less-than-comfortable conversation at the twins’ party, that a prickly distance would rear up between them. Quite the opposite, really. His transgression seems to have been, if not forgotten, then at least forgiven in the light of his own confession. She had taken it for what it really was, and bit by bit, a sort of tacit understanding, an agreement to overlook the bruises and never prod, has developed between them.

“Couldn’t sleep, the storm,” he explains when their concerned looks still stick to him; he toes at one of the many soggy leaves that are littered across the pavement. In truth, the storm had tapered off, exhausting itself not long after Charlie had crept in, and though he had spent the rest of the night with her little feet kicking him in the back, it had been something else entirely that kept his thoughts twisted up and refused him the sleep he very much needed for the day ahead of him. It’s a reassuring testament to the growing friendship between them that Toby was asked to help out today, but he can’t say he’s entirely thrilled at the prospect of spending the day lugging around boxes and hauling furniture when he’d much rather be solidly slumped on the sofa while the twins buzz around him.

But he’ll simply have to suck it up and carry on because Betsey only has one day to move her things out, and it’s not her fault that it happens to be the day after the weather and Toby’s subconscious had conspired to give him a taste of Hell. It’s not her fault that she has to move house at all; her sleazy landlord had all but forced her hand by deciding to up her rent by several hundred pounds when she already had been barely scraping by. It’s a dispute that has, it seems, been ongoing for months, culminating two weeks ago when Betsey had been delivered an ultimatum: pay up or get out. Despite Sonny’s best efforts to convince Betsey to take his money and pacify her landlord for the time being—until they could work out a better solution—she’d stubbornly refused. Now, however, with no miracle fix in sight, she’s had to reluctantly accept Sonny’s generosity anyhow, agreeing to rent out the third storey of his house at a friendly rate (at her pride’s insistence) until she can get her feet back under her and find a new place.

As such Toby would be quite the selfish prick if he elected to stay at home just because he was a bit tired. So here he is, bright and early, ready to slog his guts out. Or well, he would be if they were doing anything aside from standing around, moved on from the driving argument and listening to Joe ramble on about the Cubs’ disastrous playoff performance against some team called the Marlins; apparently, it had been an embarrassment to be swept by a team that may as well still be in nappies, and even three weeks on, Joe is still fuming, relentlessly twiddling with that bronze coin of his as he goes on and on about a weak bullpen. Toby still doesn’t understand a single word out of Joe’s mouth, but at the very least, the distraction gives him the time to polish off his coffee before Sonny’s car pulls up.

And it’s a damn good thing he’s just swallowed down his last sip or else he certainly would have choked on it when Adil smoothly steps out from the passenger side. 

He should have expected this. At this point, he really ought to have seen this coming, but for some stupid reason, he hadn’t; he was meant to have until Tuesday to prepare himself, and even that wasn’t to be enough time. Faced with Adil now…He could be sick on the spot. Awful heat flushes over his entire body, his cheeks undoubtedly gone bright cherry red, and his head swirls once more with crystal-clear reminders of the dream. Knuckles white where he grips his thermos, Toby prods back the memories and keeps his eyes trained down as Adil and Sonny approach, terrified that every contemptible vision is written in bold-face over every last inch of his skin, that every fantasized touch has left legible stains on him, selling out his shameful secret.

But perhaps he’ll be only giving himself away more by so blatantly refusing to even look in Adil’s direction. Studiously avoiding any and all eye contact isn’t exactly the least suspicious behaviour, after all, and with quite a long day ahead of them, Adil and the others are bound to pick up on the tension sooner or later. Besides, Toby has plenty of experience boxing up his feelings and tossing them away when they’re inconvenient, hiding himself behind a placid shroud of normalcy even when his head is whirling with terribly loud thoughts. Surely, after half a decade at Eton and a lifetime with his father, he can push his discomfort down and fight back his embarrassment long enough to fake his way through this; it’s not as if they’ll be doing a lot of chatting anyhow. And well, Adil doesn’t deserve to be treated so rudely just because Toby can’t manage to keep his own mind in check.

 _It was only a dream, just the subconscious throwing random pieces together._ _It didn’t mean anything_ , he promises himself as he takes a steadying breath and lifts his head.

Adil meets his eyes with a quiet but no less stunning smile before his gaze flickers away, and Toby trades his breath for another pervasive blush. Stood there in an old, baggy hoodie and paint-splattered jeans with his hair down and slightly a mess, Adil looks downright cosy, almost unbearably so. Somehow, the simple outfit makes Adil seem even more painfully beautiful than usual, and Toby’s heart kicks solidly against his ribs in response; he has half a thought of wrapping Adil up, burying his face in the crook of Adil’s neck and breathing in the scent of his cologne, before he promptly squashes it beneath an iron heel. He doesn’t know where the thought came from or why, only that it sets off the same revulsion in his chest and he doesn’t like it, so it can’t be allowed.

Instead, he pointedly drops his eyes to the Cambridge crest stamped in the centre of Adil’s hoodie before glancing back up and raising a single derisive brow, just like he’d learned from his mother.

“Problem, Hamilton?” Adil teases, one corner of his lips tilted up in a defiant smirk as he turns to follow the others inside.

Falling in step beside him, Toby diligently ignores the belligerent butterflies battering away in his stomach and the clammy nausea inching up the back of his neck. Though, he’s unable to stop himself from smiling, despite it all. Adil always seems to have that dual effect on him. “No, of course not,” he says, pushing his glasses back up and fiddling with the zipper on his jacket to expel a tad of the jittery energy that has rushed into his veins under Adil’s attention. “It’s just, I admire your bravery, wearing something like that in public. Must take a lot of confidence.”

Adil only rolls his eyes and shakes his head, not bothering to dignify Toby’s admittedly weak dig with a response; his elbow does lightly prod Toby in the ribs as he steps ahead of him and through the door, but that could just be an accident. Either way, Toby doesn’t have much time to ponder it, or the queasy flutter that stutters through his heart at the flash of contact, because once inside, Betsey hastily marshalls them into order.

“Got most of it packed up,” she says, nodding towards the precarious stacks of wonky boxes that litter the living room. “Still a fair bit more that needs boxing up upstairs, Rosy’s room and such.” 

A trail of sorrow, or maybe it’s guilt, levels her voice, leaving it grey and dull. Sonny reaches out, a gentle touch at her elbow, a reminder. She allows it for just a moment, shifting slightly towards Sonny, before pulling away entirely.

“Sonny and I will help you finish packing up the rest,” Joe says with the solemn authority of a man who coordinated a cross-Atlantic move all on his own; finally tucking his coin back in his pocket, he turns towards Toby and Adil and slaps his hand down on one of the stacks with a disconcerting smile. “And why don’t you two strapping lads go ahead and start loading these boxes in the truck? Give us a leg up.”

Toby wants to object—he’s certainly more suited to the precision of packing, more so than Joe at the very least—but Joe doesn’t wait for a response of any kind, agreement or dissent; he shoots a bewildering wink at Toby, then scoops up a few of the empty boxes scattered about and marches off, up the stairs. And gathering up their own boxes, Betsey and Sonny are quick to head up after him. 

What little belief Toby had in his ability to survive this day crumbles in his hands the second they disappear from view, leaving him on his own with Adil.

Promptly rolling up his sleeves and lifting two boxes from the nearest stack, Adil doesn’t seem bothered at all. _Of course not, he has no reason to be_ , Toby reminds himself as he hurries to follow Adil’s lead. _You’re the one with the problem here, making a fuss over nothing_. Gritting his teeth, he does what he can to clear his head, to banish all thoughts and drill his attention down to nothing but the weight of the boxes in his arms.

It works. A bit.

But the silence that settles over them while they work is fraught and stilted, at least from Toby’s side, and with nothing but the thrum of his caffeine-saturated pulse and the soreness that’s already developing in his lower back to distract him, Toby’s mind is soon drifting into troublesome territory. A few steps behind, he watches Adil efficiently heft a box full of records into the back of the van before hauling himself up after it, and Toby’s throat goes tight, remembering those strong arms wrapped around him, lowering him down onto his bed, and--

He hastily, viciously rips that thought apart, and before anything worse can rise in its place, he spits out the first, safe thing that comes to mind. “What made you want to become a teacher?”

Adil stalls where he’s leant over to pick the box back up; he blinks down at Toby, understandably a bit nonplussed, then shrugs, carrying the box to the back of the van and setting it gently amongst the others. “I grew up in a big family,” he says, the words echoing a bit in the empty space. “There were always little cousins coming around that needed minding, so I didn’t have much choice but to learn to be good with kids early on.” He strides back over and takes the box Toby offers up to him. “And then there was Dhani. He came along a bit late, I was already eight and a half by the time he was born, so I looked after him a lot.” A fond smile pulls at his lips as he shakes his head. “He was a wild child from the beginning, would just wail day and night until someone paid him the attention he wanted. Then he learned to talk…” 

Adil’s tone is so peculiarly ominous that Toby has to laugh. Jumping down from the van with a chuckle of his own, Adil adds, “He would go on for hours and hours if you let him, and he always had something new to tell you, usually something that he completely made up. And I was rather…quiet, reserved, so I became his favourite target. He just would bounce around me, endlessly chattering on because he knew I would listen. Taught me a lot about patience.” 

As he trails Adil back to the house, Toby finds himself warmed by the amused exasperation in Adil’s voice, reminiscent as it is of his own affection for Charlie and Ollie. He nearly walks into a bush, though, when Adil reaches up and pushes his hair back out of his eyes. “And I guess after a lifetime of wrangling younger cousins and a decade with Dhani,” he continues. “I figured managing a room full of five and six-year-olds would be a walk in the park.” Glancing over his shoulder, he tosses Toby a playful grin that Toby can’t help but match, albeit a touch shyer. But after a moment, Adil turns away and drops the smile in favour of honesty. “I guess teaching just felt like what I was meant to do. There’s just something incredibly rewarding about it. Seeing the kids grow and learn, helping them along and seeing how excited they get when they finally work things out. And the way they view the world, the simple joy that they bring to every little thing…It’s inspiring, and I know it’s corny to say, but I learn just as much from them as they do from me. There’s nothing else I’d rather do.”

Toby brushes a leaf from his sleeve as he steps inside. “Well, you certainly seem suited to it.”

“What about you?” Adil asks, another bulging box already easily in hand. At Toby’s confused look, he clarifies, “Did you always want to be a professor?”

“Oh, no, actually. I can’t say I did.” Adil, moving towards the door as Toby attempts to wrangle a box of his own, raises a curious brow. “I like it quite well now,” Toby adds hastily. “But it was never my dream.”

“What was your dream?”

“In all honesty? I wanted to be Alan Turing,” Toby confesses with half a laugh. “I read about him as a child and was immediately enamoured, but there’s not much use for a codebreaker in peacetime.” As best he can with his wretchedly heavy box, he shrugs and waddles towards the door. “More than anything, though, I just wanted to do maths. I didn’t particularly care what form that took, so I sort of…fell into teaching. It was somewhat inevitable, I suppose.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, when I arrived at Oxford, I fell in love.” 

Adil’s eyes snap over to Toby, and he trips slightly as he crosses over the threshold. Instinctively, Toby moves to steady him, though there’s not much he can do with the thousand-tonne box currently occupying his hands. As it is, Adil catches himself and ducks his head, hurrying on a bit faster. Toby frowns but quickens his pace as well.

“It was like a sigh of relief, as if I’d finally come home after years of being kept away,” he adds. At eighteen, Oxford had seemed a virtual wonderland to him: a place where he was at last free to be himself, escape the shackles of his family name, and live for once outside of Freddie’s involuntary shadow; where he could learn everything he ever wanted, do as he pleased, and make his own way; where he didn’t have to return to a cold, spiteful home at the end of every term. It may as well have been his own personal Eden. “I…I simply never wanted to leave, so…” He shrugs, shifting his grip on the box and keeping his eyes on his feet as he gingerly steps down from the kerb. “I found a way to stay.”

“That’s fair.” 

Adil slides his box into the van and turns to help Toby’s with his, obviously struggling as he is. As he reaches out to take a hold of the box, though, his fingers fall over Toby’s; an innocent enough mistake, but it hits Toby like ten thousand volts straight to the heart. In an instant, he is overrun by the memory, the imagined thrill of those soft hands sneaking all over his body, touching him with such tender care and precision, slipping through his hair and curling around his--

Toby’s skin burns, nausea elbowing its way up from his stomach, and he yanks his hands away, dropping the box and stumbling backwards, nearly falling on his ass in his haste to get away; luckily, Adil catches the box before it can crash to the ground and shatter whatever precious pieces are packed within it, but the damage is already done. 

Adil stares over at him, his head tilted slightly to the side, brows furrowed with equal parts confusion and concern. “Are you alright?”

Toby mentally curses himself but manages to paste on a wobbly smile as his pulse thuds painfully in his ears. “Yes, I--I’m fine, sorry, I just--” He clears his throat and straightens his jacket, wiping his palms on his trousers in hopes of scraping away the lingering buzz of Adil’s touch. Ridiculous, he’s being utterly ridiculous. “Um, just butter fingers, you know.”

It’s barely an excuse, hardly an explanation, and Adil clearly doesn’t buy it, but he’s polite enough not to question it anyhow. He simply continues on with the work, loading the box into the van and asking Toby about his classes and research; it almost makes Toby feel worse, how kind and genuine Adil is even in the face of Toby’s egregious ineptitude. Though, Adil’s voice has gone a bit tense, and when he bothers to look in his direction, he doesn’t quite meet Toby’s eye. But that’s perfectly fine by Toby, still sick with his own pungent embarrassment.

Even on their own and despite the sticky air between them, Toby and Adil have succeeded in cramming all of the boxes into the van and made a start on moving out some of the smaller, feasible pieces of furniture by the time Betsey, Sonny, and Joe begin to trickle back down the stairs with the newly packed boxes in tow. With the five of them working in tandem, it’s not much longer before the house is half empty and the van is stuffed full, its back end sagging downward under the weight. As soon as the door is pulled down and latched in place, another argument breaks out over who’s going to drive the thing, but it’s quickly quelled when Sonny sighs and hands his car keys off to Adil. Toby’s not sure how, but somehow, in the shuffle, he ends up squeezed into the front of the van, squashed between Sonny and Joe, with Joe constantly reaching across him to fiddle with the radio. It’s not the most comfortable seating arrangement of his life, but he prefers it to the thought of riding alone in the car with Adil, and thankfully, even though Sonny’s house is clear across town, it’s no more than ten minutes before they’re pulling up.

And so, the whole process begins again, only in reverse. It’s a bit of a mess, all five of them trying to fit through Sonny’s narrow foyer, ditching their boxes in the nearest open space before dashing back out for more, but time is of the essence. 

On his fourth trip back to the van, Toby somehow manages to again pick up a box that seems to be filled with nought but lead and rocks, and by the time he’s even hobbled over to the door, the others are already on their way back out. But as he trudges down the hall to the kitchen, out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of Adil in the dining room and stops dead. Something, God knows what, compels him to stand there, his arms growing sorer by the second, and watch as Adil reaches up to pull his hoodie over his head; his t-shirt rides up with it, and Toby’s eyes fly downward. He only gets a glimpse before the fabric falls back into place—toned abs and leaks of black ink that run down along his ribs—but he nearly drops his box all the same because _God, Adil is fit_. 

Toby’s cheeks flare with heat, and they only grow hotter when Adil turns and spots him there, gawking like a fool. Flustered, Toby abruptly deposits his box on the floor where he is, perhaps more roughly than is advisable, and spins around, fleeing back the way he came. But in his haste, he knocks into the hall table, his hip colliding sharply with the corner; though, he can’t pay that too much mind as he’s busy trying to catch the picture frame he’s jostled before it hits the ground. Having just nabbed it in time, Toby pulls his sleeve over the heel of his palm and delicately buffs away the smudges his fingerprints have left on the glass; his motions stall when he actually takes a moment to look at the photo behind the glass, and he freezes.

“My wife, Dayo,” Sonny pipes up from behind him. 

Toby whips around, shrinking as he’s caught out for the second time in as many minutes, but at least Sonny doesn’t seem upset. He holds his hand out, and Toby obediently passes the picture over to him; his heart thunders in his chest as Sonny gazes down at the photo, his thumb rubbing along one corner of the frame.

“She’s beautiful,” Toby offers, keenly aware of the thickening air.

Sonny’s lips bend up in a soft shadow of a smile. “She was.”

He’d sensed it was coming, but Toby’s stomach drops all the same. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, ashamed that he can’t think of anything better to say. But then again, what could he possibly say to soothe a grief he can’t even imagine the weight of?

“It’s alright,” Sonny tells him. “I wish we could have had a lifetime with her, but the years we did get…They were happy, all the more precious for their brevity, and though we can’t have her, we can hold the memories close.” He sets the frame back down on the table, adjusting it to just the right angle and trailing his finger along the curve of her cheek. “And I still get to see her every day, in Nina.”

Just then, Betsey and Joe—bickering over some accusation of DVD theft and pettily jostling each other’s boxes—appear in the doorway, and when Sonny’s eyes flicker over to Betsey, there’s a trace of guilt in them; he hangs his head with a familiar self-appointed shame, and tapping two fingers on the top of the picture frame, he quietly excuses himself and heads towards the door. A moment later, Adil’s voice drifts out into the hall, and Toby takes Sonny’s prudent lead. 

The faster they get the van unloaded, the faster he can get home and start pretending this bumble of a day never happened.

It’s nearing three o’clock when the last of the boxes from the second trip have been brought in and towed up the steep stairs. Joe and Sonny have left, off to return the van before they get charged extra for keeping it over their allotted time, and Betsey and Adil have settled in upstairs, beginning the long, arduous process of unpacking and turning the third storey into a habitable space as opposed to a cardboard-invested cave. It’s awful of him, and he knows it, but Toby, exhausted and aching all over, is desperate for a bit of peace and a second to rest his fatigue-sore eyes, so the moment he spots his opportunity, he makes a grab for it. Tossing out a not entirely false line about needing the loo, he sneaks his way downstairs where he flops onto the sofa with all the grace of a marionette that’s had its strings cut.

It is an unspeakable relief, like Atlas at last shifting the weight of the world from his shoulders; Sonny’s sofa may as well be a silken cloud, and Toby could happily lie there for the rest of time, dozing forever. But even as his thoughts grow slow and loose, the low hum of anxiety starts up in his mind, whispering of disaster and pulling him away from the bliss of sleep. It’s been over six hours. He ought to call Emma, check in on the twins, make sure nothing’s happened. Not that he doesn’t trust Emma with them, but…Well, always better safe than sorry.

He doesn’t even have the time to open his eyes and dig out his phone before he is nearly given a heart attack.

“You get lost?”

Toby bolts up on the sofa, every trace of drowsiness sloughed off in an instant, and he whips around to see Adil, leant in the doorway with a package of biscuits and a cheeky smirk that makes Toby’s already-racing heart beat double-time. “Sorry, I--I was, uh, just taking a break,” he stammers, the bite of chagrin heavy on his tongue. “I’ll come back now, I didn’t--”

Pushing off the wall, Adil waves his timid apology away and comes around the sofa; Toby’s eyes follow him, like a moth to a flame. “It’s okay, Toby. We’ve been working all day, you deserve a break.”

It’s still odd: to hear his name curled up in Adil’s warm voice. He’s never particularly cared for his name—always thought it made him sound rather like a small child or a pudgy labrador retriever—but when Adil says it…It’s different, so much more…Well, nice-sounding. Biting his lip, Toby debates with himself for only a moment before his ingrained manners win out; he scoots to the right, and after a brief pause, Adil accepts the silent invitation.

“Everything alright?” He asks, lowering himself down beside Toby, a careful glance thrown in his direction.

“Yeah, just…” Toby scooches a bit further to the right, his hands twisted together and growing clammy in his lap. A splotch of pale pink paint on the knee of Adil’s jeans catches his eye; he fights the urge to sweep his thumb across it, see if it will come away and stick to his skin. “Just had a bit of a late night.” 

Nodding, Adil delicately pries open the biscuits and wastes no time in digging one out and popping it into his mouth. Toby can hardly blame him; they had all foregone lunch in their haste. “What kept you up?”

“Oh, um…” The true answer rises in Toby’s throat, bringing with it a treacherous blush and so much shame he could have choked, but he elegantly shoves it aside and gives Adil half a truth instead. “Work, you know. Assignments won’t mark themselves,” he jokes weakly, his voice strained. Adil offers him a sympathetic, tell-me-about-it smile and a biscuit. Ginger Nut. Toby’s never been much of a fan, but he takes it anyhow, not wanting to seem any ruder than he already has today. In a show of gratitude, he breaks off a tentative nibble; it tastes better than he remembered. “And the storm, too,” he adds, dusting crumbs from his trousers. “Charlie’s afraid of them, so I stayed up with her until it passed. And in return, she spent the rest of the night treating my back like a football.”

Even as he snickers at Toby’s misfortune, Adil’s smile softens around the edges, and Toby’s breath stumbles in his chest. The way Adil is looking at him…It makes him want to run and be ill; it makes him want to never look away and do anything to keep Adil’s eyes on him. He's not sure which feeling is worse.

“Seems like a fair trade to me.”

Toby laughs, snapping out of his trance and forcing his attention back down to the half-eaten biscuit in his hand. “I suppose that is the price of fatherhood. And I’m happy to pay it.”

Silence falls over them as Toby diligently munches on his biscuit, making surprisingly short work of it; he’s almost tempted to ask for another as his near-empty stomach grumbles in appreciation, but he holds himself back.

“You know, they talk about you all the time,” Adil says, an odd skew of wistfulness to his tone. He waits until Toby turns to look at him once more, then adds, “Every day, they come in so eager and tell me all about you, about what you made for dinner or what you read for them before bed. Honestly, they rave about you so much, I…” He pauses, ducking his head and smiling to himself. “I felt like I knew you before I ever met you.”

Toby flashes a snap of a smile back at Adil, but tears sting at his eyes, and he has to tear his gaze away; as the words echo in his head, he stares down at the rug instead, following the whirling pattern, until he can blink the tears away and the poignant lump in his throat subsides enough to let him speak. “I have no idea what I’m doing most of the time,” he admits, barely loud enough to be heard. Those aren’t quite the words he meant to say, but they’ve been bunched up on his tongue for years, waiting for the right push, and now they pour out. “I try my best, but…” He shakes his head and picks at a slight snag in the sofa’s upholstery. “They are the most important thing in the world to me, and it terrifies me that…that I might be getting it all wrong, that I might be hurting them without realising it. I just…I want to be good for them. I want to do better.”

“Better than what?” Adil asks, frowning.

“My father,” Toby says, his voice hollow and frail even to his own ears. “He was, well…” A smile rises on his lips, a spiteful, caustic mockery. “He was a gentleman, but he certainly wasn’t a gentle man.” He feels Adil tense up beside him, and he knows he should stop there, but sometimes he just can’t help himself; the resentment floods his tongue, a wash of stale vinegar, and he has to spit it out before it drowns him. “He hated me, never had time for me, only saw me as a nuisance. He scarcely bothered to speak to me at all, but when he did, he was always sure to tell me how pathetic and useless I was. I was never good enough. No matter what I did, I was always too soft or too needy or too much, my very existence was cause for reprimand. For so long, I tried so hard to be what he wanted me to be, but I couldn’t because…Because he didn’t want me at all. He only wanted my brother, his precious heir to poison, to groom and mould in his grotesque image. By the end, I think I hated him as much as he hated me…” 

He trails off and shifts slightly away from Adil; nudging his glasses up, he scrubs a knuckle over his eye. Memories of his childhood—the hot sting of his father’s palm on his cheek, the days spent locked away in his room, disappearing into books where children were loved and adventures were had and friends were made everywhere with ease, the evenings spent watching the clock and the unwanted teardrops that splashed onto his pages, bleeding the words when dusk came and went without anyone bothering to call him to dinner—prowl through his head, shredding his thoughts with their well-honed claws even as he fights them back. He expects Adil to interject, break the painfully stilted silence, but he doesn’t. Instead, he waits for Toby to collect himself, his patient gaze a warm, encouraging itch against Toby’s skin. But Toby’s said far too much already, so he chokes down the vinegar and the wolvish memories.

“I never want my children to feel the way I did,” he says finally, plainly. “I want them to know that I love them more than anything, and I want them to know I’ll always love them no matter what. I want to give them the world, and…” Despite his best efforts, the venom rises again, flavoured with vicious doubt. He whispers to his hands, “I can’t help but feel I’m always letting them down in some way. Being on my own, I--I just can’t do as much, and I worry that I’m…robbing them of things they ought to have.”

 _Like a mother_ , he doesn’t say. Because as true as it may be, the mere thought of it rips at something deep inside him, a festering bruise that twinges with a pain so raw that it could make Toby sick. It’s always dizzying: his irrepressible, intrinsic desire for someone to have and hold and share the journey of parenthood with at war against his better judgment and the harsh reality of the world that he has come to know all too bitterly well. A calm, sure touch on his arm pulls him back from the ledge before he can tumble over; with his heart in his throat, he summons his courage and lifts his head to face Adil.

“You care, and you’re trying,” Adil says, his fingers tightening minutely in the fabric of Toby’s jacket. “That’s what counts, that’s what they see. They don’t see your uncertainty, they only see their father who loves them and cares for them and treats them well. They’re happy kids, and I promise you, you’re doing a damn good job.” His eyes, shining with certainty, search Toby’s for a moment, then, slowly, he releases his hold on Toby’s arm. “You are enough on your own, Toby.”

Toby can’t breathe, but he nods anyhow, struck numb and dumb. His heart flutters, a bird begging to break from its egg, and his body lists forward: a plea to collapse, to fall into Adil and be held, comforted in his steady arms. And God, Adil looks ready to let him.

The moment shatters as the front door is flung open, and Joe comes stomping in, followed with a laugh by Sonny. Adil jumps up, and as Joe and Sonny come around the corner and spot them, an odd look flickers across his face before he schools his features into placidity. 

“We were just, uh, we were just taking a quick break,” he explains shakily, though no one had asked. “Better get back up there before Betsey thinks we’ve abandoned her.”

With one last indecipherable glance thrown in Toby’s direction, he slips around Joe and Sonny and out of the room. 

As he listens to Adil’s footsteps recede up the stairs, Toby’s pulse seems to echo each mellow creak, and he grows colder as they grow fainter before disappearing altogether. His eyes slide over to Joe and Sonny, then, and their expressions seem to be asking the same question that’s wriggling in Toby’s head.

_What the Hell just happened?_

\---

A week later, Toby is returning once more to Sonny’s house with the twins in tow. This is only their third time attending the group’s weekly dinner, but already, these evenings are fast becoming a highlight of Toby’s week, a nice moment to look forward to in the drudge of the workweek, a much-needed night off from his microwave meals and over-boiled pasta, a chance to unwind and just enjoy himself. And more importantly, the twins have taken to it just as well, perhaps even better, utterly enamoured with their new friends and tirelessly eager to see them again, even after only a day apart. From the moment they arrive, Ollie is glued to Nina’s side, hanging on her every word, and Charlie is careening after Rosy and Ernie, her timidity all but forgotten for the time being. They’ve slipped so easily into this homely tableau, as if they’ve always been a part of it, and it makes Toby’s heart ache with pride and melt with overwhelming affection.

Once the children have been rounded up and settled down, dinner is a pleasant, standard affair: far too much food for the ten of them and a peel of laughter ringing in the warm air at almost all times. Toby finds himself sandwiched between Betsey and Joe, and though they keep him caught up in a truly riveting, ever-evolving conversation, again and again, he finds his eyes drifting across the table to where Adil sits. Sometimes he finds Adil looking back. But only for a moment.

It’s been a bit…odd between them since their conversation last week. Of course, Toby’s only seen Adil in snatches when he’s come to pick the twins up from school, but even in those brief interactions, it’s felt as if Adil is…holding back, receding somehow. It shouldn’t bother Toby; he’s probably reading too far into it, seeing something that’s not really there, but…Well, after everything he’d admitted last week, he can’t help but worry he’s put Adil off. It had all been rather heavy. But Adil’s words in response, his kindness and honesty: they’ve been circling around in Toby’s head all week, bolstered by Freddie’s admission at the party, piping up every time Toby’s anxiety or doubt had begun to eat at him. And perhaps it makes him selfish and perhaps it’s illogical—he should itch with distress, be chilled by the secrets he so freely placed in Adil’s hands—but he wants more. Wants to cloak himself in Adil’s compassion and keep close to his benevolent understanding, wants to return the favour however he can, wants to be…friends.

The moment that they’ve finished eating, their dishes not even cleared from the table yet, Nina bolts out of her chair and darts towards the stairs. Rosy, tossing down her silverware with a mighty clatter, is quick to follow her despite Betsey’s indignant chiding. Watching them go, Sonny only shakes his head with a fond, indulgent chuckle and reaches over for Nina’s plate, stacking it on top of his own and carrying them into the kitchen. Apparently, for the past week, Nina and Rosy have been treating their new living arrangements as one big, never-ending sleepover, and it would seem the novelty has yet to wear off. 

The same can’t be said of Betsey and Sonny, though. As they all begin to move into the living room, it’s rather obvious that they’re avoiding each other, keeping a delicate distance as they set up on opposite sides of the room: Betsey curled up on the old recliner, her feet tucked beneath her, and Sonny sat stiffly on the worn piano bench. Some tension is to be expected given the circumstances—adjusting to living together will certainly take some time—but there’s something more to this tension, even Toby can see that. All evening, their eyes have been flickering ceaselessly to each other, only to dive away before they can be caught, and now, as he passes by, Toby snags Betsey’s retreating eye, raising a brow in question. She merely shakes her head and turns away; he knows to leave well-enough alone.

In a burst of brash confidence, he steals the seat beside Adil on the sofa, playing it cool, pretending not to notice when Adil tosses a curious glance in his direction. However, Toby’s efforts are swiftly negated when Charlie launches herself onto the sofa and worms her way between them. Of course, Toby can’t be too mad when she wraps her arms, boa-constrictor tight, around his and drops her head against his shoulder, her battery seemingly spent for the night. He cranes his neck to drop a kiss on her head, and when he straightens back up, Adil is watching him with the softest I-told-you-so smile; Toby’s own smile blossoms without hesitation, despite the strange stir in his chest.

Before Joe can reel them into another conversation about his new irresponsible coworker, Nina and Rosy come waddling back down the stairs with matching impish smiles and a clunky-looking machine held between them; a bright pink microphone dangles down, dragging from stair to stair. Betsey perks up the moment she spots them, and a wicked grin splits her lips.

No more than five minutes later, the karaoke machine has been set up, and Nina and Rosy are already heartily belting out some bubblegummy song Toby doesn’t recognise, though he finds himself tapping his foot along to the catchy tune. But their performance is a rushed one, and their last note has barely finished ringing out, the applause hardly started when they break apart and dash towards Sonny and Betsey, tugging at their hands until they acquiesce and get to their feet. With no subtlety whatsoever, Nina and Rosy shove their parents together and key in an old Marvin Gaye tune before handing over the microphone and retreating to the recliner, squeezing in together and giggling behind their hands. 

“ _Like the sweet morning dew_ ,” Sonny sings. “ _I took one look at you_ …”

Betsey rolls her eyes, but when the time comes and Sonny tilts the mic to her, she takes it, her whole demeanour shifting in an instant. 

Neither she nor Sonny throw even a cursory glance at the lyrics scrolling on the screen, and as they sing about all they need to get by, the distance between them shrinks; whatever strain had been plaguing them, for the moment, disappears. Their voices are in perfect harmony, their smiles wide, their eyes alight with a joy that brightens the whole room; they drift together, pulled by some invisible string, and by the end of the song, they’re practically in each other’s arms. Of course, as soon as the music cuts out, they swiftly break apart, and Sonny politely returns to his station on the piano bench while Betsey stands in place, twisting the mic cord around her finger as she puts on a good front and sweeps her eyes over the rest of them. 

“Alright, who’s next?”

She doesn’t have the chance to select a target before Ollie gasps and jumps up; he bounds over to the sofa and taps insistently at Toby’s knees as he bounces with uncontained glee.

“Sing Ollie Pop, Daddy!” He begs. “Please, please, please!”

“Oh, I--” Toby’s stomach turns at the very idea, made queasy at the thought of humiliating himself so thoroughly in front of his present company. He wants to refuse outright, but he can’t, not when it’s his son asking, so he tries for an excuse instead. “The machine probably doesn’t have that one, sweetheart,” he says, his remorse not entirely fabricated. 

Ollie’s face plummets for a heartbreaking half a second, all the excitement rushing out of him before Sonny helpfully informs them, “It’s got an MP3 jack, you can play whatever you want.”

When Toby throws a glare his way, Sonny at least has the decency to appear sheepish, giving him a rueful, apologetic smile in return. Ollie, though, is right back to practically dancing with eager delight, hopping from foot to foot, and well, now Toby really can’t refuse him, even if it means completely forfeiting his dignity; his son’s happiness is well worth it. 

“Okay, okay, but you’re going to sing it with me, right?” He asks, the question scarcely out of his mouth before Ollie is nodding and hurrying over to take the mic from Betsey. Toby turns to Charlie, who’s still koala-hugged around his arm. “What about you, Peanut?”

In answer, Charlie merely disentangles herself from Toby and falls into Adil instead, grabbing onto him and dropping her head against his shoulder. Like it’s nothing. They both stare as she burrows closer to him, but once she’s settled, looking quite close to falling asleep, Adil’s eyes lift to meet Toby’s; something not entirely unpleasant jolts in Toby’s chest, taking the breath straight from his lungs. But he doesn’t have much time to consider it before Ollie is marching back and tugging at his hand with surprising strength.

Ollie thrusts the mic into Toby’s hand and raises his arms as the opening beats of “Lollipop” begin to clap out of the speaker. He has a bit more trouble settling Ollie on his hip now than he did when he was a fussy infant and Toby would sing him this song, twirling around the room with him to calm him down, but he bears the weight and the knobby knees poking into his ribs without complaint; not getting misty-eyed over how much time has passed, how much his children have grown, is more difficult, and when the first words appear on the tiny screen, his voice comes out strained.

It’s not as bad as Toby expected, once he gets started. He stumbles a bit over the verses—only knowing the simple, comfortable repetition of the chorus—and he’d much rather he had a good bit of whiskey in him to take the edge off and explain away the heavy blush that sits relentlessly on his cheeks. But, his less-than-stellar voice is largely overshadowed by Ollie’s zealous crooning, though he only hits every other word, and as Toby gazes around the room, it’s only smiles that greet him. Not teasing smirks but real, kind smiles. And when he glances over at Charlie and Adil, his heart jumps with a shock of rosy, ready affection. For Charlie, of course.

Despite his growing ease, Toby is quite pleased when the song ends, and he can slink back to his seat to a round of indulgent applause and a few wolf whistles from Joe. He’s barely sat down when Betsey picks up the mic once again and begins searching for a new victim. 

It takes about two seconds for her eyes to land on Adil.

He puts up a good fight, tries valiantly to brush her attention off and onto Joe, but fighting against Betsey’s will is about as useless as fighting against gravity. Soon enough, he capitulates, and she smugly drags him to his feet. With her back-up headrest now gone, Charlie returns to Toby, yawning and crawling into his lap as Betsey queues up their track. Whatever song it is, Toby can’t name it as the jaunty piano starts up.

“ _I’m not surprised, not everything lasts_ …” Up against Betsey’s powerful voice, Adil’s is hardly anything to write home about, but it strikes Toby all the same. It’s soft and warm and not perfect but perfectly pleasant, like a sweet drop of unrefined honey or all those cosy jumpers he wears. “ _I’ve broken my heart so many times, I’ve stopped keeping track_ …”

Adil’s reluctance slips away bit by bit, and soon enough, he’s laughing as Betsey exaggerates her notes and waggles her brows at him, slinging an arm around his shoulders. Toby braces for it, but this time, the bitter envy doesn’t rise in his chest, seeing the closeness between them; he just feels…happy. Resting his chin on Charlie’s head, Toby lets a small smile curl up on his lips as he watches Adil and Betsey shimmy and dance together, spinning each other around. 

“ _And I know that we could be so amazing_ …” As Betsey releases him from a twirl, Adil turns, his eyes gliding across the room and landing on…Toby. “ _And being in your life is gonna change me_ …”

Toby wants to look away, but he can’t; he’s caught in the dizzying amber of Adil’s gaze, unable to even blink, every fibre of him frozen but for his pounding heart as those words swirl around him. But it doesn’t last. A second later, Adil’s eyes move on, falling back to Betsey as the tempo slows before crescendoing into the final chorus.

When the song draws to a close with tremendous applause, Betsey smacks a loud kiss on Adil’s cheek, leaving a dark red smudge on his skin. Rolling his eyes, he wipes at the stain but only succeeds in smearing it further, and Betsey blows a raspberry at him, calling him ungrateful as he retreats to get a bit of kitchen roll to clean it off. 

It’s only several minutes later, after Ollie, Nina, and Rosy have screeched out “Wannabe” and Joe has begun butchering “Sweet Caroline,” that Toby realises Adil has yet to return. 

Gently shifting Charlie from his lap, Toby makes some excuse about getting a drink and heads back to the kitchen. When he gets there, he finds it troublingly empty. But Adil couldn’t have just disappeared, so he pads over to the sink and peers out the window that looks out into the garden. And there Adil is: sat atop the brick retaining wall, his shoulders hunched and his head tipped up towards the stars. Toby’s heart twinges at the sight of him, so small and alone, and he’s moving towards the door before he can think better of it.

Adil doesn’t look over as Toby creeps out, closing the door softly behind him, but he drops his head as if it were simply too heavy to keep up any longer. Instantly, Toby is hit by a wave of doubt, and preemptive regret curdles in his stomach as his pulse revs up. But he can’t exactly turn back now; that would only make it worse.

“Hey,” he ventures cautiously, stupidly.

Adil’s head snaps up, and when he turns, he seems rather surprised to see Toby standing there. It’s fair; it’s not as if they’ve known each other all that long or have been particularly close in that time, but all the same, Toby can’t stop the small clip of dejection that shoots through him.

“Toby…Hey…” There’s a cheery veneer spread thin over Adil’s caged-up voice—so very different from how it sounded only minutes ago—and his tepid grin is far from convincing. It’s so very wrong, and it hits Toby straight in the gut, to see him so…reduced. He wants to make it right. If he can.

“So…” He swings his eyes curiously over the empty garden before setting his gaze on Adil. Taking a step closer, he asks, “Are you a big fan of contracting hypothermia or…?”

Thankfully, Adil laughs. A quiet, bashful laugh but a laugh nonetheless. “I don’t think it’s quite cold enough for that,” he retorts.

As if to disprove him, the wind picks up slightly, biting and cruel, and a shiver cuts through him almost immediately. Seeing this, for a moment, Toby considers offering his cardie to Adil—it’s not much, hardly sufficient to block out the frigid fingers of the late October air, but it would be of some help—before he realises what an odd thing that would be to do, and he simply takes a seat beside Adil instead. Not too close but enough that he might block a bit of the breeze.

“Still,” he says, keeping his voice light, careful not to push. “It’s a bit chilly to be out here in the dark all on your own.”

“I guess you’re right…” As he pauses, Adil’s eyes dip away from Toby’s once more, and when he shrugs, his shoulder brushes against Toby’s. “I just…needed a minute.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I--” Toby trips over his words in his haste to get them out, and blistering self-censure batters him over the head. Of course Adil wanted to be left alone. Why else would he have come out here? Toby had no business barging out here like he did. “I’m sorry, I’ll leave you--”

He makes to stand, but Adil reaches out; his hand stops just short of actually grabbing Toby’s, but his intention is clear enough. “It’s okay,” he says as Toby tentatively sits back down. “I don’t mind the company.”

Nodding, Toby wraps his arms around himself, pulling his sleeves down over his hands and trying in vain to keep himself warm in the steadily cooling air. For a while, neither of them say anything, and they sit there, shivering alone together, kicking their feet and watching the aeroplanes blink by overhead. Until, that is, Toby can bear the silence no longer.

“Do you want to…talk about it?” He asks, though he’s probably not equipped to soothe whatever ache is troubling Adil.

Adil turns to look at him, but when he sees Toby’s already looking back, he throws his eyes back to the ground. “It’s nothing. I’m just being silly.”

“If it’s upset you, then it can’t be silly.”

That gives Adil a bit of pause; he’s quiet for so long that Toby is beginning to believe he’d decided to ignore him, but then, he hesitantly admits, “It’s just…That song.”

“The song?” Toby frowns. “What about it?”

“I told you it was silly, but I just…” Another shrug, another brush. “I used to be like that.”

“Like what?”

“Hopeful.” With a sigh, Adil shakes his head, a self-derisive smirk tilting up his lips. “I grew up watching all those Disney fairytales and Bollywood classics, and I always dreamed about meeting a prince of my own. They always made it seem so easy in the movies. You meet a guy, fall in love, kiss, get married, and…live happily ever after.” His smirk shrivels, and his voice goes quiet, distant. “I guess I was naïve, but I honestly thought it could be like that in real life, too. I mean, my parents seemed to fall more in love every day. But...Well, I soon found out that, despite what I learned at home, there were a lot of people in the world who didn’t think boys should be able to love other boys.”

He picks at the moss that’s grown between the joints of the bricks, peeling back the vibrant green fur, exposing the cracked, soggy mortar beneath. “It was…difficult. Being the only gay kid at my school. Or the only semi-openly gay kid at least. But…I thought uni was going to be my saving grace. I thought it was going to solve all my problems, and I had all these plans. I was going to find my community, make lifelong friends, meet the love of my life…” His fidgeting stalls. “But none of that happened.”

A solid slug of sympathy lodges deeper and deeper between Toby’s ribs; he wants to say something, anything to dispel the sorrow that sits so poorly and out of place on Adil’s face, but his voice sticks in his throat, kept down by a boulder of growing dread as Adil goes on. “Well, I did find my community, though…It wasn’t exactly the sort of acceptance I’d been looking for. And making friends didn’t go much better. And as for love…” He laughs, but this time, it’s bitter and bruised, a harsh sound Toby never wants to hear again. “I convinced myself that every man who bothered to look at me twice was my Prince Charming, and I fell hard and fast, again and again, and never seemed to learn…” Trailing off, he stares down at his hands. “I figured it was my fault, it must have been something wrong with me. And…Well, with how lonely I already was, how much I missed my family, and the stress of my classes, by my second year, it…It all got to be too much.”

“Too much how?” Toby asks, honestly a bit afraid of the answer.

Adil sneaks a glance in his direction, eyeing him carefully, scrutinising, and he must be satisfied with what he discerns. “I got in a bad way and didn’t know how to dig myself out,” he confesses, not necessarily ashamed but not quite proud either. “I had no one I could talk to. I didn’t want to burden my family, I knew it would only hurt them. So, instead, I just…bottled it up, hid it as best I could. I thought I could just grit my teeth and push through it. It wasn’t until my third year that I realised how terrible of a solution that was.”

Toby wants, so badly, to reach out, to take Adil’s hand and offer him a modicum of comfort and support, but he can’t bring himself to, and his shaking hands stay twisted safely together in his lap. “What happened then? I mean, what changed your mind?”

“This is going to sound ridiculous, but…I read a poem.” Toby raises a curious, mildly disbelieving brow, and a shred of a real smile peeks back out on Adil’s face. “It was an assignment for a class, ‘when faces called flowers float out of the ground’. It inspired me in a way, I guess. There was so much innocent optimism in it, and…I wanted to hope like that again, so the next time I went home, I opened up to my parents. It was a messy, awkward process, but it was worth it. Things slowly started getting better, bit by bit. I still had bad days, I still do, but at the very least, now I can always remind myself that, eventually, _all our night becomes day_.” When Toby frowns in confusion, Adil lifts his left arm and pulls the sleeve back, revealing his tattoo and tilting it towards Toby. “You asked, the other week,” he explains. “That’s what it says.”

“Oh, that’s…That’s beautiful.”

“It’s cliché, but--” Adil tugs his sleeve back down and shrugs. “I was twenty-three and sentimental. And a bit impulsive.” He falls quiet for a moment, then all at once, the weight of everything he has said seems to hit him, and he shudders slightly with the impact. “I’m so sorry. I--I didn’t mean to--I don’t know where that all came from. I shouldn’t have dumped all of that on you out of nowhere.”

Pulling up a soft smile with an edge of cheek, Toby nudges his knee against Adil’s. “Seems like a fair trade to me,” he says.

A shy laugh escapes Adil’s lips, soft enough to get lost in the night, and like a rose unfurling, his smile blooms as he turns to face Toby. His hair, buffeted by the breeze, has fallen limp and messy over his forehead, and Toby’s fingers twitch with the desire to reach up and comb it back. But as it is, he’s held, pinned in place by Adil’s gaze, his eyes so bright and warm and deep in the blue dark that Toby nearly forgets the cold. 

“The Hell are you two doing out here?” 

Adil flinches at the sound of Betsey’s voice, and his eyes break away from Toby’s, glancing behind him, wide with a gut-punch panic. Hastily pushing away from the wall and getting to his feet, he greets Betsey with strangled composure. “Just needed a bit of fresh air,” he says. “And Toby was kind enough to keep me company.”

“Right…Charlie’s looking for ya,” she informs Toby, though she’s still squinting at Adil, and her tone is surprisingly wary. From behind her, the muffled melody of Sonny’s rich voice leaks out into the night. “Think she might be ready to turn in.”

“Oh, of course…”

Toby stands gingerly and brushes off his trousers. His eyes flicker briefly to Adil, stood there with his head down and his hands shoved into his pockets, before he turns his back on him completely, reluctantly. As he slides past her and through the door, Betsey gives Toby an odd, calculating look, like he’s a riddle she’s determined to work out; he tries not to think about it too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference, in the karaoke scene, the songs in order of mention are "You're All I Need to Get By" by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell; "Lollipop" by The Chordettes, obviously; "Haven't Met You Yet" by Michael Bublé; "Wannabe" by The Spice Girls; and "Sweet Caroline" by Neil Diamond.
> 
> Up next: Tensions rise, moments are had, and wait...Another birthday party? Already? Oops...


	8. there it is on the tip of my tongue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Ok, so I lied...Again...I have no excuse for the word count on this one. And I have no excuse for it being this late and messy either. I'm sorry. Not even gonna bother making any promises about the next chapter because we all know I can't help myself at this point. 
> 
> But, hey, it's another Adoby-heavy chapter! Finally giving y'all a bit of the content you came here for. Uh, hopefully, this chapter will make up a bit for the long wait on that front...
> 
> Chapter title from "Tongue" by MNEK. (Which, uh, it will play a role in the chapter, and it is a whole bop, so if you wanna give it a listen...['Tis here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QTxga6nwUTg).)

“Press B! Press B!”

“Oh, don’t you dare!” Betsey growls. “Don’t you fu-- _freaking_ dare, Hamilton!”

“B!” Ernie shouts again, his impatient hands flapping out abortively when Toby proves too slow for his taste. “B, B, B!”

“I’m trying, I--” 

More than a bit overwhelmed, Toby searches clumsily for the right button so he can follow Ernie’s frantic instructions and make good use of the blue shell he’s obtained. Before he can find it, though, Betsey’s elbow jabs solidly into his hand and sends his controller flying out of his grasp; it skitters across the floor with a fragile, plastic rattle as he gasps in pain.

“Jesus,” he grumbles, rubbing at the sore spot and trying to bite back a smile. “No need to be so aggressive, Furiosa.”

“Sorry, mate,” Betsey says without an ounce of sincerity; she turns to toss Toby a wink but quickly snaps her eyes back to the screen, leaning to the left and torquing her controller sharply as her character skids around a curve. “Just the rules of the Rainbow Road. Don’t take it personal.”

Ernie, having eagerly swiped up the controller the second it hit the ground, has already taken over for Toby, and given that he had been languishing in last place for the whole race and that Ernie is a child, Toby’s not inclined to fight him to regain the controller and the chance to embarrass himself further; instead, he happily relinquishes his turn, and pushing up from the floor, much to his joints’ dismay, he moves to join the other eliminated players, Sonny and Joe, on the sofa. 

It’s a bit odd, having them all crowded into his home. He’d had a trial run of it at the twins’ party, but tonight feels different, more intimate in the seclusion and the cocoon of homely yellow light. A slight anxiety buzzes at the base of his skull, itching at his awareness and making his palms sweat with a fear he can’t put a finger on. He’d been more than a bit apprehensive when Sonny first approached him about being incorporated into the weekly dinner rotation, but he and the twins had been regularly dining at the others’ homes for nearly a month, so he hadn’t much choice but to agree for the sake of fairness and politeness. And his dinner had gone over surprisingly well, which had been quite the relief. He’d spent hours slaving away over it, reading the recipe at least a hundred times through and spending more time double-checking the instructions than actually preparing the food. Though, he’d had a bit of help from Charlie and Ollie as well, and it had been a rather nice moment to share with them, letting them add the spices and whisk their little hearts out; until, of course, Toby had turned away for five seconds to adjust the temperature on the oven and nearly had a heart attack when he turned back to find Charlie avidly inspecting his knife.

But, nervousness aside, it’s not all bad; it’s quite…warm, actually. Cosy, even. 

He settles back against the cushions and takes everything in with a languid grin: Ollie, sat cross-legged at the coffee table, marker in hand, scribbling portraits of technicolour dogs, once again back on his quest to wheedle Toby into adopting one of their own; Nina, beside him, churning out acrostic poems as Sonny throws out increasingly preposterous suggestions at her prompting and listens to her recite each new piece with a glint of pride in his eyes; Joe, muttering to himself as he hurries to spew out half-formed thoughts into his notes app for his upcoming story on some new Man City player who’s making a big name for herself on the pitch despite initial scepticism; and of course, the raucous rabble on the floor in front of the television, bickering with each other and making good use of the clunky old console Ernie insisted on bringing over.

Toby could get used to this.

Mario Kart, as it turns out, is a much more amusing and far less stressful experience when Toby is able to simply sit back and watch fondly as Charlie, Rosy, and Ernie all chase after Betsey, gunning to steal first place from her before it’s too late. Despite her most valiant effort, though, Charlie ends up coming only in fourth; Rosy slips in at first after Betsey conveniently sailed off the edge before she could cross the finish line, and Ernie scores fifth place, rather impressive after the piss-poor position Toby had left him with.

Charlie doesn’t take the loss well. 

Gingerly setting her controller down, she declares herself bored of the game and gets to her feet, her arms crossed over her chest. Betsey looks up at her, expression crinkled with concern and a touch of guilt, but Charlie pays her no mind and hastily marches over to Toby; he can see the frustrated tears she’s trying to hide, shining in her eyes, and his heart twists. He leans forward automatically, opening his arms to scoop her up. As Rosy calls upon Sonny to take Charlie’s vacated place and they start up a new race, she settles sullenly on Toby’s knee, turned away from him and periodically scrubbing stubbornly at her eyes. It’s a silly hurt, a graze on her pride that she’ll forget soon enough, but it pains Toby that he can’t take it from her anyhow. He does what he can to distract her, instead, tickling along her ribs until her frown cracks and he gets a squirmy laugh and a forceful kick in the shin from her. 

A bit of tension lingers in her shoulders as she tries to hold onto her anger, but it gradually fades as Toby cards his fingers through her mess of hair and quietly begins plaiting it. He’d seen a fishtail tutorial on Pinterest the other day while scrolling around for recipes, and well, he’s been doing boring old three-strand plaits for Charlie for years now; he really ought to give something new a go, and he always has fancied a challenge. As he works, his fingers running on autopilot, his eyes drift back to the group in front of the television. Or, more specifically, to Sonny and Betsey. 

The rigid air that has been strung between them since Betsey moved in seems to be settling a bit. Still there, still holding them at a distance but growing tired, almost like a war of attrition: both of them dug in, tired of fighting but unsure how to stop. Toby knows it’s none of his business, but…They are his friends now, and he cares about them; he wants to see them happy, and it’s clear that, the way things are now, they are far from it. To him, the solution seems so simple, so easily at hand that they could just reach out and take it, but as daft as it seems, he can understand their hesitation. There’s no guarantee, no promise that the risk will be worth it in the end, no certainty that it’ll be everything they hope it will. And with the children to consider…

Toby shakes the dreary thought from his head and focuses back on his work, diligently and delicately weaving the strands of Charlie’s hair together. He’s gotten about halfway through the plait—his fishtail looking a bit like it’s been on the wrong end of a monger’s knife but decent for a first attempt based purely on memory—when Ollie bolts up from the floor; darting across the room, he goes rumbling up the stairs and comes rumbling back down less than twenty seconds later with his sticker-covered flower book held high above his head and a wide smile on his face. As he slaps the book down on the coffee table, Charlie slides off Toby’s lap and clambers over to sit beside Ollie on the floor, peering curiously over his shoulder while he shows off his collection of pressed (and mostly stolen) flowers to Nina. And even though he’s been unceremoniously abandoned, Toby can’t help but smile.

“Hey,” Joe says, nudging Toby with his elbow. He continues to tap away on his phone, his thumbs flying over the screen, but he waits until he has Toby’s attention before he asks, “What are you up to next weekend?”

It’s a bit out of nowhere, but Toby’s grown used to that with Joe. He merely shrugs. “This, I suppose. Writing exams, if I can. Why?”

A smirk that Toby doesn’t love the look of rises on Joe’s lips. 

“It’s Adil’s birthday,” he whispers. Though, Toby’s not sure why. Adil hadn’t come tonight; he’s up in Birmingham to celebrate Diwali with his family, which has been both a disappointment and a relief; since that night at Sonny’s, he and Toby have at last become something that could comfortably be called friends—at least, sometimes—and his absence stings at the edges of Toby’s mind, their little group not seeming quite complete without him. And yet, the thought of Adil in his home, sitting on his sofa, ensconced amongst the pieces of his and the twins’ lives, his ginger laugh lighting up the air…It makes Toby shiver.

“Well, it’s on the twenty-third, actually,” Joe corrects. “But we’re all getting sitters and going out on Saturday to celebrate.” He nudges Toby again, the manic clicks of his typing continuing seamlessly even as he throws a pointed glance in Toby’s direction. “You oughta come.”

“Oh, um…” Toby’s instinct is to say no. It’s been quite some time since he went out in any sort of capacity. He had never been much of one for it before, always rather busy with his courses and research, but as an undergrad, he had enjoyed a night at the pub on occasion. When the twins came along, though, well, his ability and desire had both dwindled down to near zero, and now, a touch of guilt rises at the base of his throat as that desire returns. 

It’s awful; he shouldn’t crave a single night away from his children. They aren’t a burden. He loves them, loves spending time with them, loves taking care of them, even when it’s difficult. And besides, he had known when he made the choice to adopt them that it would mean giving up the majority of his time and setting aside his own wants; he’s no right to complain now, no right to want a taste of his old life back, but…A part of him does. Just this once. He wants to go out with his new friends, relax, have a bit of fun and maybe a drink or two. And he wants to be there for Adil, too. Still, he can’t bring himself to admit that. 

“I don’t know…”

Joe lowers his phone; the sudden silence is almost unnerving as he turns to inspect Toby, his eyes honed and shrewd. “You’re allowed to need a night off. That doesn’t make you a bad father.” It’s a bit annoying, in truth: how easily Joe seems to pick through people’s minds to find the exact bruise that’s plaguing them and how little reserve he has about bringing it out in the open. “You have to take time for yourself every now and again,” he adds. “You know, be your own person, do what _you_ wanna do. You can’t be a parent all the time.” 

It is a sensible argument. Toby bites his lip, mulling it over for a moment, letting himself be convinced. Sonny, Betsey, and Joe are going, after all, and he’d never call them bad parents, so why should it be any different for him? One more reservation nags at him, though, one more thread of anxiety pulling at his stomach.

“Do you think it would be alright with Adil?” He asks, his voice suddenly gone shy.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” 

“Well, it’s just…” Actually, Toby doesn’t have a good answer for that. Not one that he can put into words. It’s too odd to name: the ebb and flow that seems to exist between him and Adil. He’s pondered it often in the past few weeks, wondering why the Adil he sees on the weekends is so different from the one he meets during the week. Of course, he knows some level of professionalism and polite distance is required on school property, but it’s more than that. Adil seems almost…embarrassed when Toby comes to pick the twins up. Or perhaps hesitant is a better word, as if he’s suddenly unsure of Toby, wary or worried in some way. Always with his hands in his pockets, his gaze slippery and his smile tempered. The complete opposite of the teasing, easy conversation they’ve developed over dinner in the past month.

Joe sighs. “Look, it’s up to you, but you work hard, doing it all on your own. You oughta give yourself a break, kid.”

Toby has to roll his eyes at the moniker, though he doesn’t mind it too terribly. Joe is hardly more than four years older than Toby himself, but it would seem, by virtue of being the only parent of the group still technically in his twenties, he has no choice but to bear the benevolent infantilisation from his elders. When he’s through with his requisite show of annoyance, he throws on a smile that’s far more confident in his decision than he actually feels.

“Okay, why not? I’ll come.”

Joe smiles like a bear trap springing shut. “Great,” he says, turning back to his phone and tap, tap, tapping away once more. “Next Saturday, my place, eight o’clock. Wear something nice.”

Later that night—when the others have left, and he’s trudged through the washing up and tucked the twins into bed with a kiss after reading them a bit of _Frog and Toad_ —Toby finds himself up late once again, steadily plugging grades into the system and tweaking his lecture slides for Wednesday’s class. His eyes are burning from the harsh blue glow of the screen, and a shrill headache is digging in at his temples when a thought occurs to him: a gift. Now that he’s agreed to this little outing, he’ll need to buy Adil a birthday gift. But what?

He’s grown so used to buying toys and games for the twins and silly gag gifts for Emma that he’s not entirely sure what constitutes an appropriate gift for a new friend/teacher of your children. It’s not as if he knows nothing about Adil and his interests—he’s learned quite a bit in the past two months and has carefully filed away every new piece of information—but…If he’s going to give Adil a gift, he wants it to mean something; he wants Adil to like it; he wants to make Adil happy. 

But he has no idea where to start.

\---

Toby arrives at Joe’s with a nary a minute to spare. 

He’d spent so long fussing with his hair and agonising over his outfit that Emma had been forced to practically throw him out the door. He’s wretchedly nervous. Nervous in a way that he hasn’t been since that first dinner at Joe’s house two months ago. He’s tried his best to ignore it, but it sits high in his stomach, pushing waves of nausea up his throat, and it’s been there for days now, only growing more potent as the night approached. There’s no reason for it. Alright, maybe it’s been a few years—just over the better half of a decade really—since he last went out, but a pint at a pub with his friends is hardly cause for such alarm. Something about this feels different, though, and he can’t quite shake the petulant voice in his head telling him how irresponsible this is, how it isn’t his place anymore, how he’ll want to leave no sooner than he’s arrived. 

He can’t shake it because he knows it’s right. 

He’s still tugging his seat-belt rumpled clothes back into shape when the door swings open and Joe drags him in with a hearty slap on the back and an all too cheery grin. It seems Toby hadn’t needed to have worried about being late, though, because when he enters, everyone is still strewn about the living room, casually chatting and showing no signs of being in any kind of a rush. It doesn’t necessarily bode well for his chances of returning home at a reasonable hour.

Betsey spots him first and rises from her indulgent repose, pouring herself onto her feet with all the slinky poise of a prowling panther. She wraps him up in a rose-scented hug and plants twin sticky kisses on his cheeks before stepping back, holding him at arm’s length to inspect him. “Well, look at you,” she purrs and pokes a sharp, burgundy-nailed finger in his chest, plucking at his t-shirt. “You’ve been holding out on us, Hamilton. Who knew you were so fit under all that frump?”

As his cheeks go up in flames, Toby’s eyes jump across the room, to Adil, and his blush goes nuclear when he sees Adil is already gazing back, a slight smirk on his lips as he proceeds to look Toby up and down with a curious eye. 

God, he should have known better than to let Emma pick his outfit again. 

His stomach abruptly filled with queasy butterflies, Toby hastily turns his attention back to Betsey. “And you look lovely, as always,” he says, gesturing to her rather snazzy outfit. 

He laughs, only a bit nervous, as she strikes a pose and flips her hair over her shoulder, well aware of just how good she looks and proud of it. But stood in front of her, faced with her sheer low-cut top and perfectly styled curls and strappy heels that put them nearly of a height, Toby feels woefully underdressed. In fact, as he looks around the room, everyone seems to have gotten a memo that must have gone over his head. They’re not gussied up in black-tie or anything, but they’re all dressed to impress, far more than he would expect for a simple trip to a pub; he must look downright dowdy in comparison.

“What’s that you got?” Betsey asks, breaking Toby out of his envious thoughts.

“Oh, uh…” 

He glances down at the shoddily wrapped gift in his hand, its off-centre bow. He’d rewrapped it three times last night, but each try only turned out worse than the last, and he’d had to give up before he ran out of paper. Now, immediate, thorny regret lances through him; the thick paper crinkles beneath his fingers as he tightens his grip. It’s a terrible gift. He should have gotten something simple, something typical, something safe. He should have gotten nothing, even that would be better. Adil is going to hate it, and Toby burns with bitter embarrassment at the mere thought of giving it to him—having to stand by and watch as he unwraps it, seeing the disappointment on his face, hearing his forced appreciation—but he hasn’t a choice now. 

“Um, just a little gift,” he says to the ground. His skin grows hot as every eye in the room turns to him. For some reason, he hadn’t expected he would have to do this in front of an audience. Another heaping scoop of embarrassment lands in his stomach, but fighting down the slippery nausea, he takes a step toward Adil and puts on a wobbly smile, not quite able to meet his eyes. “For you. Obviously.”

“Toby…” Sitting up and scooting forward on the sofa, Adil’s hand is careful as he takes the gift from Toby. He shakes his head, but there’s a smile nestled in the corners of his lips. “You didn’t have to buy me anything,” he says, running his fingers over the somewhat childish, balloon-dotted paper. His voice is terribly soft, coloured with charmed surprise, and when he looks up at Toby, his eyes are filled with such gratitude and warmth that, for a moment, Toby forgets his impending humiliation; his breath stalls in his lungs, and he could drown in the gentle, safe depths of Adil’s eyes. But all too soon, just in time, Adil turns his attention back to the gift, and Toby realises he ought to say something rather than just stand there, gaping like a fool.

“It’s not much, but…” He shrugs, and his pulse hammers in his ears as Adil begins peeling back the tape. “Well, it’s your birthday. Friends are meant to get each other gifts for their birthdays, and when I saw it, it made me think of you, so…”

His fingers dug under the edge of the paper, Adil pauses; it’s just for a second, just a twitch of hesitation, his eyes flicking back up almost too quick to catch, but it’s enough to make Toby ill. He bites down, hard, on his tongue and wishes he could pluck the words out of the air, chew them up, and swallow them down, back where they belong and should have stayed. But before he can berate himself too severely, Adil is tearing the paper away, and Toby’s thoughts skid to a halt at the edge of the cliff.

He waits for a reaction, twisting the button on his jacket, but Adil only stares down at the thin book, frozen. Toby’s panic howls, a pack of wolves loosed from their tenuous chains to tear through his chest, and a hungry shame eats at him from the inside out. He’s fucked up; he had thought he was being clever and considerate, but instead, he’s just blown his chance to prove himself to Adil and done so in spectacularly mundane fashion. He can feel the others’ attention, the stifling silence that has fallen over the room like a coat of molten lead slithering over his skin, and he wants to run and hide. He prays for the ground to open up and swallow him whole as time slows, this awful moment seeming to drag on for an eternity; though he knows, in reality, it is only a handful of seconds.

“E.E. Cummings?” Adil asks, small and baffled. He lifts his hand and splays it across the cover, tracing a finger over the blue bird in the upper corner. He doesn’t sound thrilled, but he doesn’t sound entirely disappointed either; a fine thread of hope weaves its way into Toby’s chest.

“Yes, well, you said--” Toby rubs at the back of his neck, his gaze removed from Adil and set safely on the bland carpet while coy pink heat floods his cheeks. “You said you liked his poem, so I thought…” Adil looks up, then, and Toby’s eyes move instinctively to meet his. There’s an odd expression on his face as he studies Toby, an emotion Toby can’t identify. Though, if he had to hazard a guess, he’d say it was…wonder. Toby’s heart stumbles over itself, lodging somewhere in his throat, and he hurries to add, “But I’m realising now that you’ve probably already read his work, so this is a really stupid gift, and I--”

The words die on Toby’s tongue as Adil’s fingers curl around his. “Toby,” he says gently, his blooming smile so earnest and bright. “It’s a wonderful gift, I love it.” 

His eyes shine as he squeezes Toby’s hand, and even as his entire body is on the verge of short-circuiting, his head dizzy from the simple touch and the surge of tremendous relief, a matching smile sneaks onto Toby’s lips. But just as he is about to curl his fingers around Adil’s in return, Adil pulls away and drops his gaze down to the book once more. 

“Thank you.” 

His tone is still cheerful, but it comes out strained, plastic and hollow-sounding; Toby’s smile dips into a frown. He doesn’t have a chance to voice his concern, though, because just then, Betsey claps sharply and steps into the middle of the room.

“Alright, boys. Whaddya say we get this show on the road?”

Five minutes later, Toby is smushed in the backseat of Joe’s car, sat tensely between Sonny and Betsey as they hurtle down the A34. 

On route to Oxford. 

He can’t help but squirm a bit in his seat, his palms growing clammy where his hands are clenched together in his lap and his stomach twisting tighter every second. This night is rapidly turning into far more than he had planned for, but he does his best to hold his discomfort and apprehension down, channelling his nervous energy into adding up the numbers on the plates of all the cars they pass. It’s a childish game, one he used to play with himself during stodgy family car rides through the lethargic London traffic, but he’s always found the unerring consistency and reliability of numbers quite soothing, and it makes for an effective distraction.

Until he turns to the left to catch the plate of a speeding Volkswagen, and his eyes catch instead on Adil’s profile; the pale light of the passing car plays over his face, hugging along the sleek lines of his nose and jaw, haloing him briefly before dropping him back into darkness. Toby knows it’s impolite to stare, particularly when he’s nought but a few feet away, but he can’t stop himself, entranced and envious as he is. He wonders, not for the first time, if Adil has any idea how unbelievably beautiful he is or if he is blissfully unaware as Toby wishes he could be. After two months, he should be well-accustomed to just how good-looking Adil is, but it still manages to strike him every now and again, and even though Adil is his friend now, the inevitable jealousy always returns. Because it’s utterly ridiculous, unfair that Adil should be so unbearably handsome all the time, even when he’s just giving Joe directions from the passenger seat.

Once they’ve arrived in Oxford proper, it takes them nearly ten minutes to find parking as Joe refuses to even attempt to parallel park, and they have to circle the block three times before a clear spot opens up. They pile out of the car and hoof it from there, Betsey in the lead, her heels clacking against the pavement. Nearing nine o’clock on a Saturday night, the street is predictably crowded, crawling with all sorts of people, and Toby scans over every face that drifts past; they are smack in the middle of the campus after all, no more than a ten-minute walk from Trinity and The Bod, and he is all too keenly aware of the risk of running into one of his students. He knows, of course, professors are allowed to have lives outside of the classroom, but he’d prefer it if his students were not privy to his. At least, not this part.

Toby’s nerves only grow exponentially when Betsey guides them down an alleyway that’s half-blocked by a bin, narrow enough that they have to walk single-file. It’s not exactly the most auspicious location for a pub, and he’s even more surprised when they emerge into a small courtyard and he sees the rainbow flag hanging over the sunken entrance. 

He stops dead in his tracks.

“This is a gay bar?” He asks, a not-too-quiet note of panic slipping into his voice.

Betsey stops, too, spinning around to hit him with a fierce glare, her arms crossed across her chest, one perfect brow arched in challenge. “Got a problem with that?”

“No, no!” He insists even as his guts go slimy with unease. He clears his throat, and somewhat more levelly, he adds, “Of course not, it’s just…I’ve never been, that’s all.”

“Hate to break it to you, kid,” Joe says, clapping a heavy hand down on Toby’s shoulder. “But you’ve been in a gay club this whole time.”

Toby frowns. “What?”

Smiling wide, Joe squeezes Toby’s shoulder and waves his hand around the circle. “We’re all switch-hitters.” When Toby only stares blankly at him, though, his smile dips a bit, and he adds, “You know, we bat from both sides of the plate?”

Quickly glancing around at the others, Toby shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t--”

“Bisexual,” Sonny interjects helpfully, politely trying to hold back the amusement that’s clear in his eyes. “What he’s trying to say is that we’re all bisexual.”

“All of us ‘cept Adil, of course,” Betsey clarifies; she reaches out and playfully pinches Adil’s cheek.

“Oh, that’s…” Toby’s not entirely sure what to say as he settles this new piece of information into the picture of them he had already drawn up in his mind. He doesn’t have a problem with it, obviously, but it is rather surprising, a bit delightfully preposterous. He almost wants to laugh at how blind he has apparently been, but then, something else occurs to him. “Wait, are you telling me I’m the only straight one here?” He asks, glancing around at them.

Sonny shrugs. Adil stares down at his shoes. Joe meets him with a curious, narrow-eyed look, his brows furrowed, his mouth hooked down on one side, and Toby baulks slightly under the weight of his inspection. But in the end, it’s Betsey who answers Toby.

“Unfortunately. But you’re not too bad, so we don’t mind keeping ya around.” She tosses Toby a cheeky wink and a sharp smirk before turning her attention to Adil. “Now, let’s have a look at ya,” she says, stepping back to look him over. She hums thoughtfully, pursing her dark red lips, and tugs on the lapels of Adil’s jacket—a quite fetching, deep blue suede number, the sort of piece a man like Toby could never pull off. When she’s got it where she likes it, she smoothes away a crease, brushes an invisible piece of lint off his shoulder, and pops open one of the buttons on Adil’s shirt. Then, she goes for his hair.

Adil kindly tolerates her fussing, but when she licks her thumb and reaches up to slick down a fly-away strand, he ducks out of her grasp with an indulgent laugh. “Okay, okay,” he says, holding a hand up to ward her off. “I think that’s enough.”

“You’re right,” Betsey admits, much to everyone’s shock. Sonny chuckles, and she throws him a quick, cutting glare before focusing back on Adil with a cat-who-got-the-cream smile. “Young, fit, and single, looking like you do, you’re bound to attract a man tonight.”

She waggles her brows like some sort of rowdy lad, and Adil stifles a laugh as he rolls his eyes. “Please, what sort of a man am I going to meet in this club?” He asks. “It’s probably all uni students, and in case you’ve forgotten, I’m _thirty_ now.”

Betsey scoffs. “Hush, you’re twenty-nine for two more days. Enjoy it while you still can.” She regards Adil for a moment, and her sardonic smirk slips into something softer, something more reassuring as she takes his hand in hers. “Have a little faith, Cinderella. You never know, you just might end up dancing with Prince Charming and get your perfect midnight kiss at this ball.”

Adil’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “What does that make you, then? My fairy godmother?”

Betsey swishes her wrist around, twirling an imaginary magic wand through the air. “Bibbidi bobbidi boo, bish bash bosh,” she recites dutifully and mimes bopping Adil on the head with the wand before ducking in and squashing a kiss on his cheek. “Come on now, birthday boy. Let’s get you a drink, then get you laid.”

As Adil laughs, she hooks her arm through his and pulls him towards the entrance and down the steep stairs; he goes willingly, and Toby’s stomach goes queasy. Filing down the stairs behind Sonny and Joe, he does his best to get a hold of himself, to breathe slowly like he’s meant to and ignore the bilious taste sitting on the back of his tongue. But as they weave their way into the club, Betsey’s crude proposal rings in his ears, louder even than the thud of bassy music that shakes through the old brick walls. It’s insensible. He has no right to be upset, but he is. The mere suggestion that Adil would meet some stranger in this bar and go home with him, that he would let some anonymous man touch him and take him to bed: it fills Toby with oily disgust and wriggling displeasure. Though, he’s not sure on whose behalf.

When they enter the bar area—a surprisingly cosy space with a low, domed brick ceiling and tufted leather booths—quite a few inquisitive eyes turn towards their party. Toby even feels a few land on him, and his cheeks light up like a match dropped in a vat of petrol. Alight with itchy discomfort, he reaches up to adjust his glasses, hiding his red face behind his hand as long as he can, slinking hunched through the crowd and paying no attention to the heads that turn. He’d be uncomfortable in any club, but this one…God, it feels like fire ants are crawling over his skin, down his throat, around his stomach, nipping every inch of him. Though, even amidst his distress, he can’t help but wonder how anyone can even see him when Adil is just steps away, radiant enough to put the bloody sun to shame.

Unafraid to break out her elbows, Betsey worms her way up to the bar, the rest of them trailing after her like ducklings. She taps her nail on the counter as she waits for one of the bartenders to come close enough to snag. “Alright then, lads,” she says when she grows impatient; she turns back to face them, half-leaning, half-reclining against the bar. “What’re we having? Sonny, piña colada?” Sonny nods in affirmation, his lips ticked up in an unmistakably fond smile, and Betsey points to Adil next. “Beer for you?”

“Actually, a negroni, madam, if you please,” he corrects.

“My, my, feeling fancy tonight, are we?” She teases. Adil shrugs in response, a loose smile on his lips, but Toby’s known him long enough now to see there’s something off about it, something beneath it that Adil is trying to cover up. Seeming to sense Toby’s scrutiny, Adil’s eyes flick over to him, and his smile falters for just the briefest fraction of a second, allowing a glimpse of the turmoil to shine through. But then, Betsey is singling out Toby, drawing away his attention. “What about you? What’s your poison?”

“Oh, whiskey on the rocks,” he says quickly, but by the time he looks back, Adil has already recast his grin, plastered in all the cracks. Toby frowns, an inkling of concern gnawing at the base of his ribs, but he sets it aside and turns right back to Betsey; he almost has to laugh at the exasperated look that’s scrunched up on her face. 

“Have a little fun, Don Draper,” she begs, swatting at his shoulder. “We’re at a club, we’re celebrating, not getting pissed alone in a dark room to cope with our miserable, mid-century lives.”

“Well, then, what do you suggest?”

The second it’s out of his mouth, Toby regrets the question. Betsey’s smile transforms from friendly to positively impish, and she wags a finger in his direction. “Oh, I’ve got just the thing for you, darling.” She spins around as she spots a bartender drifting over and with her elbows planted on the counter, leaning halfway over the bar and twirling her hair around her finger, she skillfully collars the woman’s attention. “Can I get a cosmo, a piña colada, a negroni, and…” She bumps her hip against Toby’s. “A sex on the beach for the young DILF here?”

Toby chokes on the air in his lungs as the bartender bustles off to fill the order, his blush returning with full-force. “I’m sorry, _what_?!” He asks, ignoring the others who are not so discreetly snickering to themselves.

Betsey, her eyes already flitting across the room, pats his arm absently. “Just trust me. You’ll like it. Now, we need a table. Joe?” 

She nods back towards the bar, and Joe obediently steps up to take her place. Linking her arm back through Adil’s, Betsey pulls him off in search of a free booth, striding confidently through the arched doorway that flickers with dancing lights and leads into the real hub of the club; Sonny follows along after them, but Toby elects to linger at the bar—Joe only has two hands, after all, he’ll need help with the drinks—and he watches as Adil disappears into the thick of the crowd, a whole new strain of anxiety buzzing under his skin. Ever since that night in the garden, a small stone of worry has been wedged in the back of Toby’s mind, and he feels its weight keenly now. He knows Adil is in therapy, knows he’s handling his depression and doing quite well for the most part, but that little slip and before with the gift…It nags at Toby. He hates the thought that Adil could be suffering, that he could be hiding such terrible pain and loneliness under his smile. Especially tonight.

“Kid? Hey, Toby, you still in there?” 

Toby flinches back, blinking as Joe snaps in his face once, twice. “What?”

“Thought I lost you there for a second,” he says with a smug chuckle, his eyes glittering with some private amusement. 

Flustered, Toby ducks away from Joe’s gaze and puts his back to the club, tucking his elbows up on the counter. “Yeah, sorry, I just--It’s a bit overwhelming.” He waves a hand in a general, looping gesture. “You know, all of this. It’s been a while since I’ve been out.”

Joe nods, in agreement, in sympathy. “Emma staying with the twins tonight?”

“Yeah, they’re, uh, having a movie marathon. She’s showing them all the classics from our childhood and probably feeding them enough sweets to rot their teeth clean through.” 

He laughs as he says it, but a genuine dart of terror sticks in his heart at the thought. Perhaps he ought to text Emma, remind her to have them brush their teeth well before sending them off to bed. As he goes to dig out his phone, though, the bartender swings by, pulling a glass of Coke from the tap and sliding it across to Joe. 

“You’re not having a drink?” Toby asks, unable to help his curiosity.

“Nah…” Reaching into his pocket, Joe pulls out his car keys and jingles them lightly. “I’m DD. Someone’s gotta be responsible and make sure you four get home safe.”

“Oh, right…” A tendril of dull guilt pinches Toby. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think--”

Joe laughs and slaps Toby on the back. “Jeez, I’m _joking_ , kid. Don’t worry about it, it’s by choice. I, uh, I don’t drink.” He pauses, staring down at the bubbles fizzling in his drink. “Not anymore.” 

There’s a bruised note in his voice, and Toby wants to ask, but he doesn’t know how. He opens his mouth, but the words stick on his tongue, too clunky for such a potentially delicate conversation. 

Joe beats him to the punch anyhow. From his jacket pocket, he draws out his bronze coin and holds it out to Toby.

“Had a pretty good thing going for a while. Good paying job, nice little house in the suburbs, raising a son with the woman I loved, engaged to be married,” he explains while Toby gingerly inspects the coin, running his thumb over the triangle and the phrase embossed in a clean arc across the top: _To Thine Own Self Be True_. He swallows past the lump in his throat and hands the coin back as Joe goes on. “But all that glitters ain’t gold. I was living my good ol’ American dream, but Mary never wanted that kind of two-point-five-kids-and-a-white-picket-fence kind of life. When Ernie came along, I thought she’d change her mind, that we could make it work. I was wrong. She played the part for a while, but after two years…She walked out. Called off the wedding, took a bag and the ring, and never looked back.” 

He twirls the coin over his knuckles, flipping it through the spaces between his fingers, and Toby can only stare at him, rooted in attention. “I was a goddamn mess for months,” Joe admits freely. “I always drank, a glass of bourbon after a hard day to take the edge off, but after Mary, I was drinking myself half-blind every night. Things got pretty dark before my wake-up call came.” He allows himself a bitter smile but only for a moment before he’s shrugging it off. “I knew I had to get help then. For Ernie’s sake. Kid needed at least one parent who gave a shit about him.” Flicking the coin up, he snatches it out of the air and tucks it back into his pocket. “Four years sober now. Almost five.”

“That’s incredible, Joe, really,” Toby says, a sense of sincere pride welling up past the pity in his chest. Though, he is a fair bit stunned, too; Joe’s always been quite reticent about Ernie’s mother, never even mentioned her name before. And now, well, Toby understands why. 

“Thanks, kid.”

Toby knows he ought to say more, but the wounds left by love’s ferocious bite aren’t the sort that can be patched by words, and he doubts Joe wants any more flimsy bandages. And this isn’t exactly the place for commiseration, what with the headache-inducing music and all the pissed and glittered-up uni students swarming around them. 

Instead, he slings on a gentle smile and raises a brow. “Joseph and Mary?”

It gets him a wry chuckle at the very least. “Yeah, the irony wasn’t lost on either of us, believe me.”

By the time they’ve forked over a wad of cash in exchange for their drinks, Joe’s smile is back in place, a bit tense but not untrue. Just as he and Toby turn back to the club, drinks in hand and on their tiptoes, searching over the crowd, Sonny helpfully rematerialises to purloin his piña colada and lead them deeper into the club, away from the comparative peace of the bar to a snug booth in a corner of all the chaos that Betsey somehow managed to snag. It’s a miracle they’re able to get there without at least one drink ending up on themselves or the floor, packed with jostling bodies and disorienting, flashing lights as the place is. 

Sliding into the booth with a sigh of relief, shuffled along by Joe and Sonny, Toby finds himself opposite Adil in the low, yellow light, and he offers Adil a timid smile, sliding his negroni across the table; his fingers fumble over Toby’s as he reaches out to take the glass. It’s just the barest hint of a touch, there and away, but its warmth lingers on Toby’s skin even as he presses his knuckles against the cool glass of his own ridiculous cocktail.

It’s just like any other Saturday night, then: the five of them chatting about everything and nothing, still censoring their words despite the lack of impressionable little ears around, laughing loud and often. Ensconced in their own little world, surrounded by his friends, Toby can forget where they are and tuck away his discomfort for the moment. His anxiety begins to drift away bit by bit as he chats with Adil about Dhani’s intense preparations for reading week and sips at his drink; it is, unfortunately, delicious, and on his mostly empty stomach, it’s going straight to his head. Betsey is quite smug when she spots his half-empty glass, but he merely offers her a salute in concession and sits back to listen with a lazy smile when Joe’s rant about some superhero movie he watched with Ernie turns into a spirited, table-wide debate over whether Chris Evans or Chris Hemsworth is more shaggable.

As Sonny is succinctly dismantling Joe’s argument for Evans, Adil’s knee bumps against Toby’s under the narrow table. All the heat in Toby’s body collects at the point of contact, burning and effectively draining his attention. It can’t possibly be safe. Any longer and his trousers will surely catch fire. But he finds, leaning into the soft, loose buzz collecting at the back of his head, he doesn’t quite mind; it’s not exactly…unpleasant. 

So he presses back. 

Across the table, Adil’s eyes flick up, his expression almost bewildered as he stares at Toby, but Toby only smiles back at him and raises his straw to his lips, taking another healthy sip. Adil’s eyes widen, and the next thing Toby knows, the warmth is gone. Knocking back the rest of his drink in one go, Adil politely hustles Betsey out of the booth and slips away to get a refill.

Disappointment stings at Toby’s chest. A stab of guilt, too. He drops his eyes and slowly stirs his drink, batting around the melting ice and muddling the bright orange and red into a pungent pink. Not pouting, but near enough; the others get right back to their chatter.

“Alright, don’t look now,” Betsey tells Joe a little while later, hunched over the table, a wicked smile on her lips. “But there’s a cute little thing eyeing ya at four o’clock.”

Joe whips around without ceremony or subtlety; his eyes scan the crowd for a moment before he barks out a laugh. “That’s a puppy, Bets,” he says, sinking back against the booth and taking a pull from his Coke. “I’m already raising a kid, I ain’t trying to date one.”

Betsey rolls her eyes. “Never said you had to date ‘im. Were just pointing ‘im out.” She plucks the lime wedge from the rim of her glass, squeezes it into the dregs of her drink, polishes that off, then slaps her hands down on the table, rattling the glasses and causing Toby to nearly jump out of his skin. “Alright, boys. We didn’t come here to just sit about. It’s time to dance.” Toby’s stomach plummets as she pushes to her feet, but no one else moves. “Come on, then,” she insists, waving an impatient hand, the other planted on her hip. “Up and at ‘em. I ain’t dancing on my own.”

Sonny stands. Joe does not, effectively, thankfully preventing Toby from moving. Crossing her arms, Betsey glares down at Joe, but somehow he remains unfazed, calmly sipping at his Coke. The stand-off has gone on uncomfortably long—Toby and Sonny left to simply glance uneasily between them—when Adil turns back up. 

“What’s going on?” He asks, immediately amused. The drink in his hands is already half gone, as he seems to be as well, swaying a bit on his feet when Betsey turns on him.

“This one,” she says, inclining her head towards Joe. “Is being a knobhead.” She wraps a hand around Adil’s wrist and tugs lightly. “But _we_ are going to dance because _we_ know how to have fun.”

Adil glances over at Toby, only for a second, but long enough to make Toby’s heart skip. “Yeah, okay,” he says. After hastily draining a good bit more of his drink, he slides the glass onto the table, strips out of his jacket, and lets Betsey drag him off, onto the packed dance floor.

Toby’s heart sinks all over again. He knows he can’t expect Adil to sit across from him and chat all night, he can’t monopolise Adil’s attention, he can’t stop him doing what they came here to do. But, as he watches Adil walk away for the third time that night, Toby wishes he could pull him back, ask him more about the book he and his sister Padma have been reading or the last painting he worked on or anything. Anything at all.

Though, seeing the easy smile that transforms Adil’s face as he laughs and twirls around with Sonny and Betsey, coated in the hazy rainbow glow that spills down onto the dance floor from every angle…A delicate flutter starts up in Toby’s chest, and he feels a smile of his own tugging at his lips as he leans forward, dropping his elbow on the table and his chin on his palm. He’s happy that Adil is happy. He deserves it. Deserves a night to have fun and celebrate himself, be reminded how wonderful he is.

“He’s pretty hard to look away from, huh?”

Blinking, a whirl of spots in his eyes from the blinding technicolour light show, Toby turns and focuses back on Joe. He shifts over, giving Toby a bit more space and stretching his arm out across the top of the seat. When the words finally process through Toby’s alcohol-slowed mind, he frowns.

“What?”

“Adil,” Joe explains, his eyes still trained out on the crowd. “He’s a good-looking man. _Damn_ good-looking. Can hardly take your eyes off him. And he’s smart, too. And kind. Charming. Funny. Talented. Good with kids.” Each word lands like a bomb on Toby, ripping into his chest, closing off his throat as he tries to keep breathing like normal. “I mean, he’s the whole goddamn package. Kinda man you dream about your whole life,” Joe adds, shaking his head with a slight smile. “Couldn’t ask for more.”

Joe finally turns to look at Toby then, but Toby is too busy trying to keep his stomach down to meet his eyes. Instead, he stares at his drink as nausea rockets up his spine. He can’t explain it, the sickly heat that’s clawing at him, but he needs to get away from Joe. Right now. 

“Excuse me, I--” 

He holds up his glass but doesn’t wait for Joe to get the hint, simply clambers past him and practically runs back towards the bar. On the way, weaving through the crowd as best he can on his unsteady feet, he hastily finishes off what little is left of his cocktail. Miraculously, there’s an open spot at the bar, and he hurries to slip into it, shoving his glass across the counter to the waiting bartender.

“Sorry, could I have another, uh--” His traitorous cheeks flush, and he can’t even get the name off his tongue. “Um, a whiskey, please. On the rocks.”

The bartender nods, throwing in a wink for good measure as he moves off to retrieve a bottle and tumbler, and Toby’s blush settles in deeper. He drums his fingers against the edge of the counter, keeping time with his racing pulse. He’s painfully, inescapably, nauseatingly aware of the glances he’s receiving from the people around him. Some of them merely curious, some of them sceptical, some of them appraising. He knows he doesn’t need another drink, that he’ll pay for it in the morning. He knows he should step outside and call Emma, make sure the twins have gotten to bed. But that’s all just a blip in the back of his mind as he struggles to untangle his briar-patch thoughts. 

Joe likes Adil.

Joe fancies Adil. 

God, Joe might even _love_ Adil.

It doesn’t make any sense. Joe’s always been chummy with Adil, of course, but Toby’s never seen anything from him that would indicate any sort of _romantic_ interest. In fact, Joe’s always professed to be disinterested in romance. Which, after the story he told Toby tonight, is understandable. So, why the sudden change? And why tell Toby? 

It makes plenty of sense. What man wouldn’t be interested in Adil? Joe’s right: he’s everything a man could ask for and more. Any man would be beyond lucky to have him. And after everything, Joe deserves to be happy with someone, and if he wants that someone to be Adil, then Toby should be supportive, encouraging, but the thought of Joe and Adil together…It doesn’t sit right. It chafes against him. It itches under his skin like hives.

He’s already downed one glass of whiskey, and he’s starting on his second when someone reaches over his shoulder and snatches the glass out of his hands. He spins around, indignant, and watches with a powerless scowl as Betsey knocks back the rest of his drink. Smirking, she slams the tumbler back down on the counter and takes his hand.

“Whatever you’re up here moping about, it doesn’t matter right now. Forget about it, alright?” She doesn’t wait for him to answer before she hauls him off, back into the club. He can only stumble over his feet, trying to keep up; she’s surprisingly strong. “We’re here to have fun. It’s high time you loosened up a bit.”

Toby feels ludicrously out of place the moment he steps foot on the dance floor, and he tightens his grip on Betsey’s hand as she tows him through the writhing crowd. It’s so loud and bright and full of densely packed strangers; Toby doesn’t know where to look or what to do, and he feels rather like Alice, fallen through the looking-glass. His woozy head swims, and he’s already sweating, uncomfortably warm and tugging at his collar, by the time they find Adil. 

A man—rather unattractive, in Toby’s opinion, all slick hair and smarmy smile—is buzzing around Adil, pressing in close, his intentions clear in his devouring eyes and his presumptuous, grabby hands. The itch rises back up, instant and vicious, under Toby’s skin, bringing with it a searing flash of contempt, but the moment he spots Betsey, Adil pulls away from the man and falls safely into her arms instead. Whatever had been bothering him before seems to have disappeared completely. He whispers something in Betsey’s ear that has her throwing back her head and cackling with joy, then his gaze slips over to Toby; he smiles, flushed and rumpled, his hair flopping into his glittering eyes, and there is only one thought in Toby’s head: _beautiful_.

Once the sleazy man has taken the hint and slunk back into the crowd, Betsey wastes no time getting back into the groove. It’s quite impressive how well she can move in those precarious heels of hers, and Toby can only giggle when she smoothly slides over to him with a sly smirk and shimmies up against him. He lets her put his hands on her hips as she sways to the beat, but when she fails to entice him further, she writes him off with a huff and returns to Adil; she lays her arms around his shoulders, and they easily slip into rhythm together, leaving Toby to stand by, awkward and unsteady. Even as he’s being elbowed and knocked about by anonymous bodies, though, he’s smiling like a fool as he watches Betsey spin Adil around and around, both of them laughing with pure delight. 

Until, that is, Sonny returns and Betsey promptly lets Adil go to wrap herself up in his arms instead. 

Adil takes the spontaneous rejection well, watching Sonny and Betsey with a soft smile for a moment before turning back to Toby. His smile quickly transforms into an almost comical frown, though, when he sees Toby stood still. Stepping over to Toby, he leans in, both hands pressed flat against Toby’s chest. Toby’s hands instinctively reach up, gripping Adil’s elbows. They stand there, frozen for a moment, and as Toby stares down at Adil, mesmerised by the play of light across his face and reflected in his eyes, he wonders if he can feel Toby’s heart, beating like a manic beast, beneath his palm.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” Adil asks, at last, half-shouting to be heard despite how close they are.

“I can’t,” Toby says lamely. He drops his hands back to his sides. “I don’t know how.”

“Bullshit.” The curse is so out of place in Adil’s sweet voice that Toby has to laugh, and Adil’s smile peeks back out. His hands run up to rest on Toby’s shoulders as he leans closer. “You just have to move!”

Toby shakes his head. “No, I--I can’t do it right.”

Adil shakes his head right back, his smile only growing. “There is no _right_ , Toby.” Despite the heated air, Toby feels a chill when Adil’s hands slip from his shoulders, but he’s repaid handsomely by a much richer warmth when Adil takes his hands. He pulls at Toby’s arms, one at a time, making his shoulders wobble. “You just do whatever you feel like!” 

“I’ll look strange,” Toby insists, though he feels himself beginning to give in, his fingers curled around Adil’s, the dignity-protecting voice in the back of his mind trampled beneath the whiskey and the urge to keep Adil smiling at him like that.

“Who cares?” 

Adil raises a brow, one corner of his lips ticked up, cutting away the last scraps of Toby’s resistance. He tugs at Toby’s hands, and even as he rolls his eyes, Toby can’t fight back his dopey grin. 

“What the Hell, why not?”

Adil smiles brighter than the bloody sun and all the stars, and Toby lets himself forget. The people around them, judgment, propriety, inhibition, the swoop in his stomach, his thundering heart: he forgets it all and just moves, surrenders to the enigmatic magnetism and lets himself be drawn in by Adil. He follows Adil’s lead at first, parroting his movements, but eventually, instinct takes over. Or maybe it’s just the whiskey. He’s clumsy and ungraceful, like a newborn foal, but it’s surprisingly nice, freeing even, and Adil is there, wonderfully close, holding his hands so tight and singing along, loud and proud. Nothing else quite matters for the moment. 

A few feet away, he catches Betsey’s eye; she gives him a proud, atta-boy wink and a thumbs-up, and he beams back at her, not caring how goofy it makes him look. But while he’s distracted, the music changes, from skull-crushing electronic noise to a low, dark beat, a voice singing about swimming pools and attraction, and Adil perks up. 

“Oh, I _love_ this song!” He shouts, his smile laced with a sort of boyish glee.

Closing his eyes, he drops Toby’s hands and lets himself get fully lost in the music, bouncing along without a care in the world, his hands raised above his head, his shirt riding up just a bit. Toby can’t help but stare, his collar feeling awfully close around his throat. It’s really something to see: Adil, Mr. Perfect, so loose and ruffled and unrefined, all pretences dropped in this moment and all the more perfect for it, transcended in his own simple joy. Watching him, Toby’s chest aches with some strange emotion he can’t place. A tug in his chest that’s anchored somewhere deep, somewhere buried in the heart of him.

When the song’s tempo picks up, though, so does the movement of the crowd, and in the growing frenzy, a rather burly, presumably plastered man bumps into Adil. He reels back, a bit too sharply, and all his drinks and spinning seem to hit him all at once as he loses his already tenuous balance. Stumbling, he falls back against Toby and nearly sends them both tumbling to the floor before Toby replants his feet, bracing himself against Adil’s weight; this time, his hands reflexively fly to Adil’s hips, a gentle, steadying grip.

“Alright?” He asks with a chuckle. 

Adil doesn’t answer. As the song abruptly slows once more, he merely presses back against Toby’s chest, the lengths of their bodies flush against each other; he slides his hands over top of Toby’s, holding them in place as he continues to sway from side to side, almost as if he were in a trance. 

Immediately, horrifically, Toby feels his body responding. 

Of course, it’s a completely natural, _inevitable_ response to the sensation of another warm body pressed against his, and he is quite drunk—or at least well on his way there. His body doesn’t know what it’s doing, reacting purely on instinct to friction and pressure without regard for specifics. It doesn’t mean anything. But it’s horribly embarrassing nonetheless. If Adil were to notice—Nausea rips at Toby’s stomach, cutting straight through his tipsy serenity. He does what he can: angling his hips away from Adil’s, ignoring the heat of Adil’s skin that seeps through the thin material of his shirt and the feel of Adil’s hands on his. It doesn’t help. The sickening pull in his gut only grows stronger, and his skin only burns hotter. But, just when Toby is ready to shuck politeness and run, the song ends. 

Adil slips out of his grasp, and he can breathe again.

\---

Toby’s not sure how they end up back at the bar, but he’s almost certain it was Betsey’s idea. He doesn’t mind the break, overheated and exhausted as he is from the time he’s spent on the dance floor, and he really could use another drink: something strong enough to block out the lingering, forked-tongued shame slithering through his ribs and around his heart. But when Betsey calls for a round of bloody _Blowjob_ shots, the rational little voice that had been drowned out by the pounding music pipes up to tell Toby this might not be such a good idea. 

Still, he steps up between Adil and Betsey as the bartender sets out the glasses.

Despite the lewd name, it doesn’t look too terrible. Rather like a little sip of hot cocoa, topped off with a neat swirl of whipped cream.

Picking up her shot, Betsey raises it in toast. “Down the hatch, boys!”

“Come on, Day, might as well take it properly,” Adil taunts. Leaning down, he wraps his lips around the shot glass, then, in one smooth motion, he straightens up and throws his head back, downing the shot with ease. Setting the glass back down on the counter and licking his lips, he turns to Toby and Betsey with a cocky smirk that punches Toby straight in the gut.

“Fair play, birthday boy,” Betsey says, looking rather delighted by the challenge. 

Gathering her hair up, she leans over the bar and skillfully knocks her shot back in the same fashion. She slams the glass down on the counter in triumph, and both she and Adil turn their eyes to Toby. One last inkling of sense stops him from making a complete fool of himself, and even though Betsey boos at him, he takes the shot normally. It’s not too strong, as far as shots go, but his head still swims, and his eyes go woozy for a moment.

More shots follow.

Quite a few.

Then they’re pressing back into the heat and flashing lights. Their hands linked, the three of them circle together, packed in at the centre of the dance floor. Though, what they’re doing can hardly be called dancing at this point; they’re more just jumping and shuffling along with the beat while giggling like children and trying their best not to fall over. Like a sloshed game of Ring Around the Rosie. Toby’s head and pulse throb in time with the heavy beat of the music, he’s too warm, and his stomach is a mess, but the consequences are for him to bear tomorrow. Tonight, he’ll enjoy the temporary break from his overbearing thoughts and just let himself live for once without worry or doubt. Tonight, he’ll belong. Because right now, he does belong here, laced between Adil and Betsey, surrounded by all these people who seem so alive and vibrant and unfettered by care. Even if they are all nearly a decade younger than him, he feels safe among them, he feels at home strangely enough, his anxiety subducted beneath their shameless joy, their infectious pride and energy that radiates through the room, passed freely and openly among them.

It seems a small eternity, an endless moment that they spend out there, melting in with the other bodies and making tremendous fools of themselves, As much fun as he’s having, though, Toby is nearly thirty and quite spectacularly drunk. He’s quite relieved, then, when Adil whispers in his ear that he needs another break and threads their fingers together, dragging him back towards the booth. Once they actually remember where they’re meant to be going, they crash down on the seat across from Joe and Sonny in a graceless heap, utterly drained and half on top of each other. Adil doesn’t let go of his hand. Toby hopes he never does. 

He can’t remember the last time he has felt so good. So wholly unburdened. So blissfully indifferent towards the world. Can’t remember the last time he had this much fun. So, of course, it’s then that Joe, with an exaggerated frown, decides it’s well past time to get them home.

“Come on, you two,” he says in his best dad voice. He pushes up from the table and comes around to tug at Toby’s arm while Sonny heads back out into the fray to search for Betsey. “I think you’ve had more than enough for tonight.”

Toby and Adil both try to put up a fight, but Joe is rather insistent and very much more sober than them, so their efforts are in vain. He has Adil bundled back into his jacket and is prodding them towards the door in a matter of minutes. Sonny—with Betsey tucked under his arm, her arms around his waist and head leant against his shoulder—meets them there. He and Joe have some quick discussion, something about calling an Uber, but Toby’s not really paying attention; he’s a bit more focused on trying to ignore the flush that hits his cheeks when a handsome man walks by, pausing to look Toby up and down before winking and continuing on his way. Toby glances over at Adil, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed. Something in Toby wishes he had.

After they’ve said their goodbyes to Sonny and Betsey and left the club and its racing energy behind, Toby, Adil, and Joe clamber out onto the mostly deserted streets. The moment the cold air hits Toby’s lungs, the last remnants of the spell break, and the alcohol catches up to him. And it does so with a vengeance. He slumps against Joe, his head down, his ears ringing, his breath spilling out in laboured puffs of white fog as he watches his uncooperative, tripping feet and tries to block out the sickening sway of the world. The three of them move down the pavement like a lumbering, six-legged oaf. Joe does most of the legwork: keeping Toby up, constantly pulling Adil back in when he begins to drift too far astray, apologising to concerned passersby. It’s something of a miracle that they manage to get back to the car unscathed. Grumbling to himself, Joe all but shoves them into the backseat, though his tone is patient when he tells them to do up their seat belts before stepping around and slipping into the driver’s seat.

When they hit the A34, speeding down the motorway, Toby’s stomach lurches; his head spins; his eyes refuse to focus as the world rushes past. He tries hunching over, holding his head in his hands, his eyes squeezed shut tight, but that only makes it worse. 

“I need to lay down,” he announces.

“Hey, no, don’t--” Joe reaches back, trying to stop Toby, but it proves difficult to smack Toby’s hands away from the buckle while keeping his eyes on the road. “Damn it, kid. Come on.”

A stinging shard of spite, an irrational spike of anger, cuts straight through Toby, and for a moment, just a little bit, he hates Joe. A bitter, brittle hatred that wants to snap and snarl. What right does Joe have to tell him what to do? What makes him think he’s so much better than Toby? He’s just jealous. Jealous that Toby could do what he couldn’t, jealous that it was Toby that Adil was dancing with tonight.

So, with smug determination, Toby ignores him and clicks off his seat belt. Somewhat shakily, gingerly as to not upset his stomach any further, he lowers himself to lie across the seat, his too-long legs scrunched up awkward against the door, his right arm twisted up beneath him. He lays his head in Adil’s lap, and his anger melts away in an instant, completely forgotten. Unbelievably comfortable, he sighs and closes his eyes, but they drift back open when, a moment later, gentle fingers card back through his hair, twirling around the curls; he shivers. 

The fingers draw away, skittish, as he turns his head, shifting to gaze up at Adil. A slow, open smile spreads across his lips as their eyes meet, and he lays his hand on Adil’s knee, his thumb sweeping back and forth across the rough denim of his jeans. Tentatively, Adil’s fingers push through his hair once again, and Toby, helpless, leans into the touch. It feels good, and at the moment, he doesn’t quite care why.

Quietly, to himself, he hums that song Adil loved.

\---

It’s with great reluctance that Toby sits back up when they arrive at Joe’s, and immediately, he misses Adil’s soft warmth. A strike of petulance returning, he bats Joe’s hands away as he tries to help Toby climb out of the car. But that just leaves Joe free to help Adil, a steadying arm wrapped around his waist, slipped beneath his jacket, as they make their way up the front path. Scowling, Toby stumbles along behind them and nearly tips over into a bush, unable to take his eyes off Joe’s hand, curled around Adil’s hip. He only breathes again when Joe lets go, fumbling to get his key in the lock.

Once they’ve tripped over the doorstep and thoroughly startled the dozing babysitter, Joe shuffles Toby and Adil into the dining room and sits them down at the table while he forks a handful of notes over to the young woman, who eyes Toby and Adil with open suspicion. Adil offers her a small wave, but she only narrows her eyes, gathering up her coat and purse and heading on her way without further ceremony. As the door swishes shut behind her, Joe bustles into the kitchen and when he returns, he shoves two brimming glasses of water into their hands. 

“Drink up, all of it,” he instructs as he moves off into the living room. He begins pulling the cushions from the sofa and throwing them aside. “You’ll thank me in the morning.”

The still irked, uselessly proud part of Toby wants to disregard the order for the simple sake of it, but stealing a glance to his right, he sees Adil is dutifully sipping at his glass, so Toby relents and follows suit. It tastes like heaven on his stale tongue, and he drains the glass in seconds, his head tipped back to get every drop.

Joe, the prick, chuckles and claps Toby on the shoulder as he passes by. “Slow down there, don’t wanna drown,” he warns, heading out into the hall to dig through a linen closet. After some rummaging, he returns with a wrinkled pile of mismatched sheets and blankets and pillows, which he carries over to the pull-out bed that has magically materialised from the sofa. Toby watches, a satisfied smirk edging up on his lips, as Joe tries to wrangle the fitted sheet, cursing as the corners keep springing loose as he attempts to stretch it over the thin mattress. It takes him nearly a full minute to get it sorted.

“It’s not exactly the Ritz,” he admits, fluffing the pitiful pillows and dusting off his hands. “But it’ll do for tonight.”

It takes a moment for the words to process in Toby’s head, even longer for him to realise what Joe’s suggesting. But when he does, a slurry of guilt pours down on him. His children. He has to get home to his children. His children who he completely forgot about. His children who will be wondering where he is. His children who will expect him to be there when they wake up. He needs to be there for them. Like a good father would. 

Bracing himself against the table, he gets to his feet.

“I have to go,” he mumbles, patting around his pockets, panic growing in his throat when he finds them all empty.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Joe says, surprisingly firm. “Not in this state.”

Toby shakes his head emphatically, a terrible idea; the room spins, and he nearly staggers over before he gets a hold of himself, his fingers gripped white-knuckled around the back of the chair. “No, I can’t, I--” He pauses, fighting down a hiccup. “I have to get home, Charlie and Ollie, I have to check on them, I can’t just--”

“Trust me, kid, you’re in no shape to be a parent right now.” Joe tosses a blanket—bright blue and covered with cartoon characters, all the softness long since worn out of it—at Toby; it hits him in the face, his reflexes sluggish at best, but he manages to snag a corner of it before it hits the ground, and he gathers it up in a ball against his chest. “Sleep it off here and go home when you’re yourself again, okay? I’m sure Emma will be fine with them for a night.” 

Toby opens his mouth to protest further, but Joe’s already turned away, the matter apparently settled. He flings the remaining blanket to Adil who has a bit more success catching it than Toby. 

“Alright. Now, I’m going to sleep--” Joe points a sharp, all-business finger at Toby. “ _Do not_ wake me or Ernie up--” He points to Adil. “I don’t wanna hear a peep, got it?” Toby and Adil exchange a quick look before they nod in timid unison. Sighing, Joe scrubs a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose “Get some rest,” he adds, quietly, softly, and flicks off the light.

His steps creak as he makes his way up the stairs. With nothing else to do, Adil shrugs and flops onto the lumpy bed, settling on the right side. He squirms about a bit—kicking off his trainers and wrestling off his jacket, both of which he lets fall over the side onto the floor—before he lies back and draws his slightly too short blanket up around his shoulders.

A worm of concern still wriggles in Toby’s chest, itching at his throat, but he’s not got much of a choice. He’s no way to get home; his keys are gone, most likely pilfered by Joe, and there is at least one cell of sense left in his brain that knows he ought not be anywhere near a steering wheel. Besides, he is suddenly rather tired, and well, looking down at Adil, already curled up…He does make the bed look rather appealing, skimpy and threadbare as it may be. 

Still, his heart hammers against the cage of his ribs as he toes his shoes off and strips out of his jacket. He can feel Adil’s eyes on him.

Gingerly, he crawls onto the mattress beside Adil. 

Pulled like a compass needle to North, he turns inwards, facing Adil in the hazy half-dark. He hasn’t shared a bed with another adult since Theresa. It’s…nice: to feel the weight and warmth of another body, Adil’s body there with him. But it’s not a very wide bed; they’re so terribly close. He could reach out and brush Adil’s hair back from his eyes if he wanted to. But he’s frozen, held in place by the hush, able only to blink as he’s poised on the edge of the cavern of inches between them, waiting for a push, the anticipant air thick in his lungs. 

The tension breaks, though, when a slight tremor shakes through the mattress and Toby realises Adil is giggling, his smile poorly hidden behind his hand. A matching smile bubbles up on Toby’s lips. “What?”

Adil only shakes his head and slips his arm from the blanket, reaching out.

Toby’s eyes flutter shut. His breath stuck in his throat, he waits for the touch of Adil’s fingertips against his cheek, but it doesn’t come. Instead, his fingers hook around Toby’s glasses, his knuckles grazing ever so faintly against Toby’s temple. Gently sliding the glasses off, he folds in the arms with careful delicacy and leans over Toby to set them safely aside on the end table. His chest bumps against Toby’s shoulder as he does so, and the subtle scent of his cologne floods Toby’s senses, leaving him dizzy. He wants to follow Adil as he lies back down, wants to tuck his nose at the smooth curve where his neck meets his shoulder and just breathe.

When Adil is resettled, he takes one look at Toby and breaks out in senseless giggles once more, hiccuping and just a touch too loud. Though he’s giggling, too, Toby presses a finger to Adil’s lips. 

“Shh,” he says. “Or Old Man Joe’s going to come back down and yell at us.” Adil’s eyes are wide as he stares at Toby, his lips slightly parted; the air between them suddenly seems much heavier without his laughter lightening it, and Toby is caught, awed in the gravity of it. Slowly, he draws his finger back, his eyes still locked to Adil’s as his fingertip trails over the swell of his bottom lip. “We have to be quiet,” he adds, the words dampened, afraid to break this fragile wonder.

“Okay,” Adil whispers.

For a long moment, they watch each other, the silence broken only by the discreet rumble of a lonely car passing by on the street outside, the stillness disrupted only by the steady rise and fall of their chests. The alcohol and the late hour pull at Toby, sit heavy at the base of his skull, crying for sleep, but he fights them. He keeps his eyes open while his pulse trembles through his veins. Something in him warns him, begs him not to look away, to hold onto this little moment, stood on a precipice he can’t name and wrapped in the safety of the night. _Make the most of this_ , it tells him. _Don’t let it slip away._

He bites his lip. “Can I ask you a question?” Adil nods, but Toby hesitates, his voice temporarily lost somewhere inside him as he gazes at the man across from him; the pale, velvety orange glow of the streetlamp pours in from the window behind Adil, spilling over his edges, casting him in such lovely softness. He seems so close and yet so very far away. So small and yet so very extraordinary. So real and yet so very impossible. Like a dream. The ache returns to Toby’s chest, knotted over his heart. “Why are you so pretty?”

Adil laughs, his brows scrunched up. “Am I?”

“You are. It’s not fair,” Toby insists. He puts on a scowl and flops a looping, loose hand at himself. “The rest of us just have to look like this.”

“I’m sorry,” Adil says, a sincere frown on his face. As Toby laughs, Adil scooches in closer, like a child at a slumber party with a big secret. “But I think you’re pretty pretty yourself.”

Toby rolls his eyes even as his heart stumbles. “No, you don’t.”

“I do.” His smile softening, Adil’s eyes flicker over the details of Toby’s face, taking him in. His heart stalls as Adil studies him; he feels different, like… _something more_ , under Adil’s deliberate inspection. Then, hesitantly, lightly, Adil touches a spot on his jaw, a spot on his cheek, a spot beneath his eye. His skin burns, all the way up to the tips of his ears. It burns hotter still when he realises Adil can likely feel it. “You have all these freckles,” he says. “I like them.”

Snorting, Toby shoves Adil’s hand away. “Shut up.”

Silence settles back over them, but this time, as they stare at each other, Adil’s gaze is different. His eyes are so bright, so honest, filled with an emotion Toby recognises but can’t define. In the space between them, he lays his hand over Toby’s, feather-light, and whispers, “You are whatever a moon has always meant.”

They’re close enough that when Toby shakes his head, their noses brush. “You’re pissed.”

“So are you,” Adil says quietly.

“We should probably go to sleep,” Toby says, even quieter. 

He hopes Adil will say no. He hopes Adil will say yes.

Adil lifts his hand, tucking it back into his blanket, leaving Toby’s hand cold and lonely. “Probably,” he echoes. His voice is wrong: hollow and brittle, like there’s something caught in his throat, and his eyes slide away from Toby’s.

“Yeah…” 

Toby’s not sure what possesses him to do it. Tomorrow, if he can remember this, he’ll blame it on Betsey—for putting the idea in his head—and on the whiskey—for giving him the confidence, making him stupid enough to actually do it. 

Pushing up on his elbow, he leans over Adil and ducks in to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Happy birthday, Adil,” he whispers against his skin.

Before Adil can answer, before regret can sink its teeth into him, Toby moves away. He rolls over, putting his back to Adil, and pulls his blanket up to his chin as he stares at the fuzzy shadows on the wall.

It’s a long time before he falls asleep.

\---

Toby wakes up cold.

And it gets worse from there.

A headache tramples incessantly around his head, trying to pound his skull into dust beneath its lead boots. A pit yawns in his thin, abused stomach, seeping hatred and threatening to tear him apart. A stabbing white light presses in against eyelids, clawing and attempting to blind him.

He groans. 

Rolling over, away from the horrible light, he clamps a hand over his eyes and breathes slowly while his protesting stomach sways like a dinghy in a hurricane. How much had he drank last night? It hadn’t seemed like too much at the time, but now…God, he feels utterly wrung out, crumpled up, damn near inhuman. Just a raw shell of pain and nausea. Like the slightest touch could break him. It’s been a fair while since he’s had a drink, he expected his body wouldn’t be entirely thrilled, but this is far worse than he ever could have imagined. 

It takes him quite a while to work up the courage to force his eyes open.

When he does, he spots the fuzzy outline of a pill bottle and glass of water on the end table, and he throws up a prayer of thanks for Joe and his saintly patience. He struggles with the cap for a few moments before shaking out two small circles into his palm, tossing them in his foul-favoured mouth, and gulping them down with the precious lukewarm tap water.

“How ya feeling?”

Toby’s head snaps up, and a wave of pain, followed by regret, crashes through him. He rubs uselessly at his temple. “Like someone took a cricket bat to my head.”

Joe smiles. “Good,” he says as he shuffles in from the dining room. He’s already dressed, looking perfectly chipper. Once Toby’s levered himself up, slumped back against the sofa cushions, he hands Toby a white mug with a dark blue W stamped on it, filled to the brim with coffee. No cream, no sugar. “You went a little overboard last night.”

“Yeah, I know…” Toby stares down at his coffee for a moment, frowning at the miserable, wobbly reflection he finds there, then looks back up at Joe, who has kindly sat directly in front of the window. “Could we maybe close the curtains, please?”

“Nope.” Joe takes an unbelievably smug sip from his mug, utterly unaffected by Toby’s squinted glare. “Consequences, kid, gotta live with them.”

“You’re a prick.”

“Nah, I’m a good friend.” 

Toby lifts his mug, downing a shallow mouthful of the bitter swill to hide his smile. It’s then that he notices the empty space and neatly folded blanket beside him. His smile twists down. “Where’s Adil?”

“Upstairs. Shower.” 

“Oh.”

An odd disappointment prods at Toby’s chest, but he brushes it aside, not bothering to inspect it. He suffers another drink as Joe’s eyes stick to him, scanning over his edges like he’s looking for a crack, some fracture he can jimmy open and break in. The silence hovers over them, stretched taut between them like a rubber band waiting to snap. Up above, Toby hears the water shut off, the soft rush of it only noticeable in its absence.

“So, you wanna talk about it?” Joe asks at last, blunt as ever.

A flighty bird of panic hatches in Toby’s throat. “About what?”

Now it’s Joe’s turn to glare. “About last night.”

A whole new flavour of sickness punches Toby in the gut as the memories filter back to him. Swiftly compounded by a solid hook of guilt that catches him by the throat. He had been rather chummy, perhaps a bit too cosy, with Adil last night. It hadn’t meant anything to Toby; it had just been a bit of harmless, drunken fun, but _God_ , how must it have looked to Joe? How cruel and insensitive must Toby have seemed? After everything Joe confided in him, the trust Joe had shown him…He’s an awful friend. And more awful still because even now, sitting under Joe’s waiting gaze, a pang of inexplicable rancour pinches his stomach, bruise-like loathing throbbing in his chest at the mere thought of Joe’s feelings for Adil. 

“Look, I just--” Toby wraps his chilled fingers tighter around the mug, his knuckles nearly as white as the ceramic. “It’s like you said, I got a bit carried away, alright? It’s been a while since I had a night out, and I suppose I went too far trying to make the most of it, and--”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Toby frowns as he looks up from his coffee, his guilt temporarily forgotten. “Well, what did you mean, then?”

Sighing, heavy and weary, Joe shakes his head. “Nevermind. Don’t worry about it, kid.”

Pushing himself out of his chair, he pulls out his phone, tapping away with one hand as he drains the remainder of his coffee and heads back to the kitchen for more. Toby can only stare at his retreating back, nonplussed. _That was odd_. Not that Toby can blame him. Love and jealousy have been known to make people do strange things.

“Morning.”

Toby nearly gets a lapful of hot coffee as he jumps about a foot in the air. His heart immediately racing, he whips around and finds Adil stood in the doorway, almost shy, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. 

“Oh, uh, yeah. I mean, good morning,” Toby stutters as he paws frantically, fruitlessly at his tangled hair, utterly mortified. He must look like an absolute mess.

After a moment of hesitation, Adil steps into the room, gingerly collecting his things from the floor. He looks a bit worse for wear himself, though it’s subtle. Just the start of dark shadows beneath his eyes and a touch of tension in his shoulders, holding him a bit too stiff. His hair is still slightly wet, and it hangs limp over his forehead. Toby’s fingers twitch.

Setting his mug aside, he grabs his glasses and shoves them on before throwing off his childish blanket and getting to his feet. He stumbles a bit, his vision cutting out for a woozy second, but he shakes his head and blinks through it. Turning to Adil, he shoves his hands in his pockets and searches for something to say as Adil shrugs on his jacket.

“Bit of a wild night, wasn’t it?” He asks weakly.

Adil pauses to give Toby a cheeky grin. “Must have been, considering I can’t remember most of it.”

“Oh?” Toby can’t quite keep the disappointment out of his voice or the frown off his face, though he’s not quite sure why it bothers him. It’s hardly surprising after the amount of alcohol they’d indulged in, and in all honesty, it’s probably a good thing—he’d embarrassed himself rather roundly last night—but…It stings, against all reason.

“Yeah, I don’t drink much, so last night was…” Adil shrugs, sitting down on the pull-out to put his trainers on and lace them up. “A lot.”

“Right…” 

Toby keeps his head down, staring at a faded pink stain on the carpet, even as Adil stands back up, all put together again.

“Well, I…I should get home,” Adil says. He almost sounds reluctant, but Toby’s probably just imagining it. “Before Dhani burns the place down. If he hasn’t already.” He tries for a chuckle, but it’s weak, and it disappears, swallowed by the stilted air. Toby only nods. “Um, thank you, Toby. For the book. It was…It was really thoughtful of you.”

“Oh, uh…” Toby finally looks up, then, and he flushes from head to toe when he sees the book in Adil’s hands. But…It’s not entirely bad, the way his heart flutters, and he lets a small smile curl up on his lips. “You’re welcome.”

Slowly, Adil smiles back. “I’ll, uh, I’ll see you on Tuesday.”

“Yeah…”

Toby stands there until the door has clicked shut behind Adil, until he hears Adil’s car pull away and drive off down the road. Then, he digs his phone from his pocket, dialling Emma’s number, a hefty apology already forming on his tongue as he moves towards the loo. He ought to at least try to fix himself up a bit before he heads home. Ought to at least try to scrub away the stain of his sins from his skin. At least for his children’s sake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I've never been to a club before, so I'm sorry if I got some stuff wrong; I did base it on a real gay club in Oxford, with some small tweaks, but...Research can only get you so far...
> 
> And for reference, Adil's "You are whatever a moon has always meant" line is a quote from "i carry your heart with me" by, of course, E.E. Cummings.
> 
> Well, hope this was worth the extra wait! Probably not, but still...
> 
> Up next: The end of the term, some family shenanigans, and a slice of drama, of course...


	9. winter's so cold this year, you are so warm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, it's another long one, lads! And a little late again, but I'm thinking the update schedule might slide to every three weeks instead of every two weeks from now on. Just as a heads up if anyone's keeping track!
> 
> Not much else to say about this one, standard fare, so, uh, go forth and (hopefully) enjoy!
> 
> Chapter title from "Wintertime Love" by The Doors. (Sorry for dad-rocking 😔)

Sitting back in his chair, Toby squints down at his finished work.

It’s…Well, it’s a bit of a mess, to be honest, and it doesn’t much resemble the example Adil made. In fact, his snowman looks a fair bit more like a bulky white worm with a black growth on its head and a colourful noose around its neck than jolly old Frosty; his snowflakes look more like the chunks of torn tissue paper that they are than the delicate crystals they’re meant to represent; and his tree looks more like a lumpy, stodgy triangle than a proud pine. But he’s never claimed to be an artist, he never expected it to be perfect, and the sugared-up six-year-olds around him don’t seem too offended by the massacre he’s made of it. Anyhow, Adil had encouraged them to be creative and make the project their own, so, Louvre-worthy or not, Toby’s quite content with his slightly goopy picture. 

Rubbing the tacky patches of glue and bits of tissue paper from his fingers, he picks up his paper and holds it up for Ollie’s inspection. “Well, what do you think, Ollie Pop?”

Ollie, in the midst of decorating his snow-blanketed field with a spread of painstakingly-shaped, plump purple birds, pauses and glances up at Toby’s not-so-masterpiece. He considers it for only a brief moment, then turns back to his own work. 

“You used too much glue,” he advises as he tears off another strip of tissue paper.

With some effort, Toby forces his fond smile into an affronted frown. He turns across the table and waits until Charlie—her tongue caught between her teeth and the cuffs of her sleeves coated in paint and glue—finishes tweaking the placement of her snowman’s bright green nose before he asks, “What about you, Peanut? You like Daddy’s picture, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but mine’s better,” she says, matter-of-fact, not even looking at it.

Toby laughs. “Oh, but of course,” he concedes with a solemn nod, setting his sodden paper back down and handing her the pot of silver glitter she’s been eying. “I can only aspire to your level of artistry. I think that gem there will have to go up on the fridge straight away when we get home.”

She preens at the compliment, soaking it in for a moment with a hint of a smirk. Though, of course, it wouldn’t do to look too flattered, so she maintains a dignified, disaffected poise, her chin held high as she proceeds to dash her picture with glitter, a large portion of which ends up on her jumper instead. It’ll be a pain to clean up, but Toby merely shakes his head, his heart light with simple joy and affection.

It’s a lovely little end-of-term party Adil’s put together. A cosy shindig for the parents to come in and spend the day with their children, relaxing and snacking and making silly little crafts together, celebrating just how far the students have come since September. Toby’s quite thrilled he was actually able to attend, to be here to support Charlie and Ollie like all the other parents. It’s so rare that he has the time for these sorts of functions. Teaching an extended term had taken more out of him than he had expected, kept him on a bloody hamster wheel of never-ending work; it had utterly wrung him out, both physically and mentally. But, two weeks ago, his term had finally come to a merciful end, and as of Monday, all of his exams have been marked and returned, so he’s finally free to devote all of his time to the twins and enjoy his holiday. 

Once she’s satisfied with the distribution of glitter, her picture sparkling under the fluorescent lights like a shattered disco ball, Charlie brushes off her hands and reaches for her plate, picking up a carrot; she gnaws at it with open-mouthed, grim determination, much to Ollie’s disgust and Toby’s amused exasperation. She’s quite keen to lose a tooth, has been on a mission ever since Ollie lost his first—an unfortunate accident involving a bit of dancing and a bump from Toby’s shoulder that Toby still feels guilty about every time he sees Ollie’s little gap-toothed smile and hears the slight lisp in his voice. Charlie’s had not any luck in her quest so far, but that hasn’t stopped her from trying. When she’s polished off the last of her carrot, she runs her tongue over her teeth, prodding each one in search of a wiggle and finding none.

She doesn’t pout, though; she merely squares her shoulders and shoves her paper plate across the table to Toby. He takes the plate obediently but meets her expectant stare with a raised brow. 

“Please?” She asks.

With a proud smile, he reaches out to ruffle her hair. “Coming right up.”

Pushing out of his ridiculously small chair, his knees are troublingly stiff as he makes his way to the table of snacks Adil had set up at the back of the room. This late in the day, most of it has been thoroughly picked over, all the crisps and brownies and biscuits gobbled up and even the veggie trays looking pretty sparse. Flimsy plastic tongs in hand, he roots through the pile of carrots and celery that remain, plucking out the least wilted pieces.

“Still trying to loosen up a tooth, huh?”

“Hasn’t stopped since Ernie told her how he lost his last one,” Toby says, delicately placing two semi-decent carrots on the plate and setting the tongs down before turning to face Adil. Toby’s seen him all day, but he still can’t help but smile at the sight of him. He’s wearing the most ridiculous jumper yet—a navy blue number with a fuzzy, bobble-hatted, bespectacled polar bear on skis in the middle of his chest—but as usual, it looks perfectly stylish on him. Toby can’t even be jealous; he’s just impressed at this point. 

“But it’s got her willingly eating more vegetables, so I can’t really complain,” he adds as he slips his eyes away from Adil and back out to the table in the corner where Charlie sits, kicking her legs back and forth as she works. “Though, I am worried she’s going to try and break out the pliers next, impatient as she is.”

Adil laughs, the toll of a golden bell, warm and whole. He shakes his head, his gaze soft as it follows Toby’s across the room. “You have to admire her dedication.”

“It’s certainly commendable, if a bit unorthodox.” Biting his lip, Toby runs his thumb along the crinkled edge of the plate and sneaks a glance back in Adil’s direction. “So…I imagine you’ll be coming along tomorrow?” He asks lightly, leaning back against the table, his free hand gripped around the edge beside Adil’s.

It’s subtle, casual, the way Adil shifts away, putting a few extra inches between them, and he keeps up his smile without fault. 

“I don’t think Nina would forgive me if I didn’t. It’s become something of a tradition in the last few years, and she’s a real stickler for those sorts of things,” he says, affection clear in his voice but not able to entirely cover the growing plasticity. Old disappointment settles at the back of Toby’s throat, though he should be used to it by now, though he knows it’s fair. “It’s always a fun night for the kids.”

Shaking away the useless, stale bitterness, Toby drags his cheer back up. “Well, the twins can’t wait. I think they might actually be more excited about this than Christmas. They’ve never been before, and…” 

His words trail off as another parent approaches. Adil abruptly turns away and busies himself with tidying up the table. Brushing away crumbs and collecting the empty trays, he greets the woman kindly as she eyes up the remaining spread. Only the slightest hint of strain shows through his amiable smile, but Toby knows he ought to go. Chatting on the weekends and at pick-up is one thing, but in the classroom…Well, it wouldn’t do to give the other parents any ideas about favouritism. Quietly, with a polite nod to them both, he dismisses himself. Though, not before stopping to impulsively swipe one of the last two ginger nut biscuits.

As he weaves his way back through the classroom, nibbling on his biscuit, he passes by Adil’s desk, and there, peeking out amidst the papers and supplies, he spots a cream cover, a blue bird and green leaves and dog-eared pages. 

He presses on, delivering the plate to Charlie with proper ceremony and taking his pint-sized seat once more, his knees practically in his chest, but it’s nearly ten minutes before he manages to get the small, giddy grin off his lips.

\---

The festival is far more elaborate than Toby had expected. It’s quite a beautiful little scene the organisers have created: fairy lights spun into all the trees and strung over the square, captured stars twinkling in the twilight; the light poles wrapped up like candy canes and topped with perfect red bows; plump, vibrant poinsettias littered at every turn and sprinkled with fake snow; lush, ornament-studded garlands draped precisely from every bit of fencing; the surrounding buildings lit up in all sorts of blues and purples, temporarily relieved from their limestone drab; frosted wreaths hung on every door; merry music filtering out from hidden speakers; the strong, inviting scents of pine and ginger twisting through the air. A perfect winter wonderland nestled in the middle of the city.

Quite a few people are milling about, sampling the wares and fares of the many white tents that are set up around the perimeter, but the ice rink is almost empty when Toby and the twins arrive. It’s a rather chilly night, granted, but as Toby jogs up behind Charlie and Ollie—who all but bolted from the car the moment he’d put it in park—he’s surprised to find there’s nought but a handful of people out on the ice. This close to the holidays, it ought to be packed, regardless of the weather. Though, Toby doesn’t particularly mind the thin crowd. It, at the very least, makes it far easier to find the others, and, of course, it seems they’re the last to turn up. As usual. 

When he catches her eye, he sends a quick wave to Betsey, and taking the twins by the hands before they can run off again, he leads them over to the ticket counter. Once he’s forked over a frankly extortionate amount for three flimsy wristbands that grant them a few hours of access to the ice rink, they make their way over to the rickety bleachers where the group has set up. Their rented skates, slung over Toby’s arm, clack together with every step. 

“Glad you could make it, Hamilton,” Betsey teases as she does up the zip on Rosy’s coat and pulls her fur-lined hood up over her head, adjusting it just so. “Were beginning to think you weren’t gonna show.”

“I know, I know,” Toby huffs, releasing the twins to swarm their friends; it’s been a week since they’ve last seen each other, but given their excitement, it may as well have been a year. Rushing over to Nina, already babbling excitedly, Ollie immediately plucks one of his gloves off and all but shoves his hand into her face. This morning, after twenty minutes spent solemnly pondering his collection of varnishes, he’d spent another half-hour meticulously painting his nails and adamantly refusing Toby’s help; now, twiddling his fingers for Nina, he proudly shows them off, a wintry pale blue topped with snow-like glitter. Charlie, on the other hand, is excitedly miming some trick she’s been practising with her now very broken-in football for Ernie and Rosy.

Toby smiles at the sweet little scene, but as his eyes trail around the group, he can’t help notice there’s a new addition tonight, and his smile slips down a peg at the sight Dhani, installed at Adil’s side, chattering away, eating up his attention. Sensing Toby’s gaze, Adil meets his eye for only a flash of a second, but the hint of a smile that he offers Toby soothes a bit of the petty disappointment. 

Turning back to Betsey, he belatedly explains, “I got caught up with packing, lost track of time.”

“You skipping town or something?” Joe asks with his usual cocky, crooked smirk. His cheeks are chapped red, but even though he’s in nought but a light jacket, he seems utterly unbothered by the biting breeze.

“Just for the holidays,” Toby answers, shoving his hands in his pockets. For weeks now, a slight seed of dread has been slowly sprouting in his stomach at the thought of returning to The Halcyon; it’s a requisite, annual pilgrimage—the only one he could never manage to get out of—and it has become much easier since his father’s death, but…Well, it still isn’t _easy_. But he doesn’t want to think about that right now, so he shakes the brewing clouds from his head and presses on with adequate cheer. “We’re leaving tomorrow morning to head up to Theresa’s. Two days there, then it’s back down to London to spend the rest of the year with my mother, so…” He shrugs. “Quite a lot of packing to be done.”

While Joe details his and Ernie’s plans for the holidays, Toby calls the twins back over and hands them their skates. They both throw themselves down immediately, kicking off their trainers in their rush to catch up with the others who are already all decked out and ready to get on the ice. Prying off his own shoes much more calmly, Toby’s not entirely sure about this. As excited as the twins are and as comfortable as everyone else seems to be, he’s never been the most physically coordinated man. Of the two of them, Freddie had always been the athlete, and Toby had been downright ungainly in comparison; he’s quite certain he’s going to make a fool of himself at some point tonight, and he’d really prefer not to, given present company. 

As he laces up his skates, Toby glances up, watching Adil and his brother as Sonny regales them with the woes of his latest attempts to learn to play his father’s old trumpet, much to Betsey’s and Rosy’s displeasure and Nina’s amusement. Dhani is leant up against the side boards, laughing along, cool as can be, but beside him, Adil is all bundled up: a dark green beanie pulled down over his ears, squashing his hair flat against his forehead, his bare hands thrust deep in his coat pockets. He looks so frightfully cold, and although Toby’s heart clenches with a jolt of pity—although he’s struck by a fierce desire to wrap Adil up, to take his hands between his own and rub the warmth back into them—a small smile still sneaks up on him, and a rosy little laugh escapes his lips before he can bite it back.

He flinches, feeling it like a stinging slap when Dhani’s eyes flicker over to him, sharp and direct. After a brief moment, he seems to remember Toby, and his glare softens. A much worse, slow smirk lights up his face instead; he tosses Toby that same frilly wave, but Toby offers him only a nod in acknowledgement before he ducks his head, his skin on fire against the chill of the air. As he internally curses himself and his poor manners, he narrows his focus back down to his laces, taking one in each hand and pulling tight. 

His fingers fumble slightly as he weaves his way up the boot, missing the first hook a few times before the lace catches properly. But, once he’s evened out his breathing and gotten a hold of himself, reining in his thoughts and ignoring the frantic knock of his dismayed heart, he makes short work of his left boot and moves onto the other. It’s not long before he notices Ollie, peering over his shoulder and watching his hands with keen interest, his own glove-hampered fingers tugging clumsily at his laces as he tries to copy Toby’s movements. Toby slows down, moving with deliberate care, but as he finishes his own laces off with a neat bow, Ollie’s are only that much more hopelessly tangled. He looks up at Toby, his lip jutted out, and he lifts his skate, holding the laces out towards Toby.

Knelt on the cold ground, Toby picks apart the series of knots Ollie has somehow managed to create and winds the laces up his boot, stopping periodically to pull them snug. He’d read online that loose-fitting skates can lead to ankle injuries and blisters. Best to be safe. Beside Ollie, with a frankly adorable groan of frustration, Charlie throws her laces down. Crossing her arms over her chest, she stops to pout for a moment before she kicks her little foot out at Toby, nearly giving him a quite close shave with the blade. 

“Mine, too, Daddy?” She asks, a heavy, defeated reluctance in her voice.

“Of course. Just a second, Peanut.” 

He pats her knee and sets in on Ollie’s second skate, but apparently, he’s not working quite fast enough for her tastes. As Ernie clambers over and throws himself out onto the ice, followed swiftly by Rosy, Charlie squirms in impatience, her lip caught between her teeth and her fingers tapping with a hollow echo against the metal bleacher. Then, she gasps, practically bouncing with excitement.

“Mr. Joshi!” She shouts, and Toby’s head snaps up. She points down at her outstretched skate and breaks out her best puppy dog eyes, batting her lashes. “Can you help me with my skates, _pretty please_?”

Toby turns, ready to wave Adil off, tell him it’s alright, not to worry about it—the man ought not have to act like a teacher on his holiday—but Adil doesn’t hesitate; he’s already starting over with an indulgent smile. While Toby gawks, he kneels down in front of Charlie, who’s quite pleased with her quick thinking, and he easily begins doing up her laces. His shoulder brushes against Toby’s with every movement, and it’s such a simple act, a mere favour, but watching him…Toby’s heart stutters in his chest, his throat thick with his stalled breath. He wants to put it down to discomfort, but he can’t. Not entirely. Because as much as that instinctive aversion is there, a touch of gratitude is blooming his chest, too, overriding it. A warm, fuzzy feeling nestled in behind his ribs, a quiet, peaceful sort of content.

His thoughts are interrupted when Ollie politely nudges him with the toe of his skate. Mumbling an apology, Toby hurries to finish up. Once he’s double-checked the fit around Ollie’s ankles, he stands and helps Ollie to his feet; they’re both a bit wobbly on the thin blade, but they manage alright. 

Charlie pops up the moment Adil’s tied off the last bow, dropping a hasty 'thank you’ before toddling off toward the rink as quickly as her clunky skates will allow. Her mittened hands grip onto the boards that are nearly as tall as her, ready to push out onto the ice, but…She stalls at the edge, and her wide smile dips under the weight of sudden uncertainty. Biting her lip, she lifts one foot, prodding tentatively at the ice with the pick of her skate, and in that moment, Toby loves her so damn much, his darling, ridiculous little bundle of contradictions.

While Charlie waffles, Adil stands gingerly, brushing off the knees of his trousers, and with a shake of his head, he turns to Toby. A small but no less dazzling smile is tucked in the corners of his lips, and a gleeful brightness gleams in his dark eyes. It’s a perfect reflection of the bubbly affection Toby feels welling up inside him, a shared delight warming the air between them; it cuts straight through Toby, down to the quick, hitting upon something that reverberates through him and releases a flock of gentle butterflies in his stomach. 

He stumbles a bit, his eyes still stuck to that little smile, when Ollie tugs at his hand. 

“Hurry up, Daddy,” he says, his impatience less severe than Charlie’s but no less insistent as he drags Toby along and waddles over to join his sister at the rink’s entrance. Having momentarily stepped aside to allow some others to get through, Charlie’s now got one shaky skate planted on the ice again, stunted determination twisting her face as she clings to the boards. She looks over as Toby and Ollie draw up, and Toby’s heart nearly cracks in two when Ollie silently holds out his hand to her. She doesn’t hesitate to take it, wrapping her little fingers tight around his, and with a reassuring nod from Ollie, she steps fully out onto the ice. She pitches forward almost immediately, but with Ollie’s support, she manages to stay upright, and Toby is spared the heart attack; though, his pulse still races.

Soon enough, they’re all out on the ice together, gliding around, an unsteady little chain with Toby at the helm. Wary of falling and bringing both his children down onto the unforgiving ice with him, he merely scooches them along with a hand on the wall, barely bothering to pick up his skates as they make their way around the rink at a safe crawl. But Charlie and Ollie don’t seem to mind if their giddy giggles are anything to go by, and despite the cold that sneaks in under his jacket and stings his hands and face, Toby feels warm all around. 

In that instant, he is suddenly, keenly aware of his happiness. It sits in his chest and expands, pushing his ribs out of the way and holding his heart up in its gentle palms, allowing it to gaze in wonder at the scene before him, a scene he could have never imagined just a few months ago: Betsey keeping her chin high, pretending she’s not clutching onto Sonny’s arm for dear life as he smiles at her with unrestrained, undisguised affection; Joe shamelessly piddling around with a penguin-shaped skate-aid while Ernie and Rosy skate circles around him; Nina—a sparkly purple tutu pulled up over her leggings, fresh white skates smooth and confident on the ice, a graceful figure skater in miniature form—twirling about with Adil and Dhani, cutting between them in clean figure-eights at centre ice while they applaud her; Charlie and Ollie, trailing along behind Toby, their round cheeks pinked and stretched with their matching grins.

He couldn’t ask for a better night, and he knows already it’s one he will never forget. He’ll always carry the glowy memory of this simple, perfect magic.

It’s not long, though, before Ernie breaks away from taunting Joe and comes charging at Toby and the twins instead, his shoulders lowered and his arms swinging at his sides as he picks up speed, looking every bit like an actual hockey player on the hunt for some poor soul to check. At the last second, just as Toby is bracing for impact, ready to yank his children out of the way, Ernie skids to an aggressive stop beside Charlie with a loud _skish_ that sends ice flying out everywhere. His smirk is the perfect likeness of his father’s.

“Hey, Hamilton, bet I can skate a lap faster than you.”

The challenge is scarcely out of his mouth before Charlie is dropping Ollie’s hand and taking off. She skitters like…well, like a fawn dropped in the middle of a frozen lake, but as Ernie races to catch up with her and Rosy rushes to join in, she seems to get the hang of it. Her confidence growing with each push of her skates, she soon steadies out and puts up a good fight as they barrel around the curve. Toby winces as the trio indelicately shove their way past a few innocent bystanders and tear on down the ice, but even as fear itches at his throat, he can’t pretend he’s not a bit amused as well.

“Guess it’s just you and me now, buddy,” he says as Ollie shuffles up beside him.

Temporarily releasing his death grip on the wall, he reaches out to ruffle Ollie’s wind-tossed curls. In return, Ollie beams up at him, his tongue poked through the gap in his teeth, but after only a second, he’s pulling at Toby’s hand once more, urging him forward. He takes a few clumsy steps, more stomping than skating, and Toby can only do his best to keep up, trying to maintain a hold of the boards as Ollie all but drags him along, demanding to go faster and faster. He stretches towards the centre, his free arm held out and flapping at his side, a delighted, puffy-coated bird gliding down the ice. 

They’ve only managed two laps, though, before Ollie gasps. It’s all the warning Toby gets before Ollie’s hand slips from his and his son goes scampering away. Toby tries to go after him, but he’s hardly managed a step before he nearly falls on his ass and flails back to catch onto the wall once more. Heedless to Toby’s weak calls, Ollie careens on towards the middle of the rink, where Adil is spinning Nina round and round, balanced on the tip of one skate. Unable to stop himself, Ollie comes close to crashing straight into Dhani’s legs before Dhani stalls him with a gentle hand on his shoulder and a patient smile. 

Even from across the rink, Toby can hear Ollie’s bouncing pleas of “Me too, Mr. Joshi! I wanna spin, too!” as he turns on Adil, barely able to contain his excitement. Nina, the kind girl that she is, politely bows out, releasing Adil’s hand as she swizzles off, and Adil, accepting Ollie’s thrust-out hand in her stead, happily obliges him. Toby’s heart melts at the sound of Ollie’s light laughter that rings around the square and breathes warmth into the night air. But stood on his own, watching his son dance around with Adil, seeing the bright grins on both their faces, Toby’s heart aches, too. Terribly. He wants to look away, but he can’t, something in his gut gripped and twisted.

He’s sensed it since the start of the term, over every weekly dinner in the past months, and he’s done what he can to ignore it, but now, it’s clear as day, undeniable: his children are growing up. They’re growing beyond him, and perhaps it’s selfish of him, but that terrifies him a bit: the thought of them branching out, learning and exploring on their own, not needing him as much anymore. He’s always known that the day would have to come eventually, and for the most part, he is happy, downright overjoyed to see them blossoming and becoming their own independent little people with friends and interests, but…God, it seems just yesterday the midwife was placing Ollie in his arms—his sweet, pink-faced bundle of joy all swaddled up, clutching onto his finger so tightly—and now, six years have gone by before he could even blink. He wants to stop the clock, to pull them back, to hold them close and keep them by his side where he can protect them from the world and all its plentiful cruelties, but to do so would only be a cruelty in itself. He is meant to be their launching pad, a platform from which to fling themselves somewhere better: into the future, into fulfilling lives. Soon enough, he will no longer be the centre of their world as he has been for years, and that’s okay, that’s natural, but they are and always will be the centre of his. Irrecoverably.

It’s a preposterous train of thought to even ponder on a night meant for fun and cheer; his children are only six, he knows he still has time, but he also knows no amount of time will ever be enough to prepare him to lose his heart and be left all on his own. He can’t imagine how he’ll bear the loneliness, the emptiness once they’ve gone, and he can already feel the gaping cavern of it opening in his chest. And looking at Adil—the ease with which he interacts with the twins, the affection that they clearly have for him—another flavour of hollow anguish rushes in to fill that cavity. It’s not an unfamiliar anguish—in fact, he’s come to know it well and often in recent times—but it digs at him now with ruthless clarity. More than ever, he wants someone like that: someone he and the twins could love, someone to share in the joys and soothe the heartbreaks of parenthood, someone who would stay when the twins went away. 

But it’s an impossible dream wrapped around a probable nightmare.

When Toby at last manages to tear his eyes away from the heartwarming and wrenching spectacle at centre ice, he finds Joe’s sharp gaze fixated on him, a similarly sharp frown contorting his face. Toby almost has to laugh at the ridiculous picture he makes, stood there so grim while held fast to a merry plastic penguin, but guilt slices through his gut, effectively stomping out any humour whatsoever. Joe makes a move towards him, and Toby, like a coward, ducks and runs. It’s horrible of him; after nearly a month, he should be well past any issue he might have taken with Joe, but the knowledge of his feelings for Adil haunts the air between them, slimy and chilling, and Toby can hardly look at him without feeling queasy. He can’t explain why it bothers him so much, but it does. 

After only a second or two, Toby hears Joe stall out behind him, the clumsy clack of his skates falling silent as he gives up on pursuit, but having spotted Sonny and Betsey up ahead, Toby pushes on. The sight of their hands, still clasped tight between them, is enough to wipe away a bit of Toby’s sudden sullen mood and bring a slight smile to his face. 

As he draws up beside them, Betsey swats at Sonny’s arm. “You shut your mouth, Sonny Sullivan,” she warns. Though, they’re both laughing, so Toby can’t imagine she’s too upset. 

For a moment, she and Sonny simply look at each other, their eyes bright, and discomfort slides up Toby’s spine; he feels like he’s intruding on something rather private, and he starts to fall back, regretting even attempting to join them. But just as he begins to slow, Betsey drops her gaze down to the ice in a hurry, and when she turns to Toby a second later, he could almost swear there’s a blush sitting high and pink on her cheeks, but he’s willing to pass the colour off as a symptom of the cold as she packs away her quiet sorrow and slips back into her slick smirk. 

“Lost your little shadows, eh?” She asks.

“It would seem so,” he says, admirably level and light as he glances over at Ollie, now dutifully taking instructions from Nina, and Charlie, still racing away against Ernie and Rosy. “Turns out they prefer not being stuck to the wall all night. Which is fair, I suppose.”

“Well, we won’t be straying too far, so you’re more than welcome to skate with us,” Sonny offers, so bloody sincere that Toby can’t help but smile, a touch of warmth climbing back into his chest.

“I’d be happy to.”

They’ve been meandering around for a while, listening to Betsey gripe about the unbelievable customer who came in and forced her to give their son a truly disastrous bowl cut, when Betsey’s words suddenly trail off, and she scoffs. 

“Whaddya suppose those two are up to this time?” She asks, nodding towards Nina and Rosy who are now huddled up, heads ducked together and hands held in front of their mouths as they whisper urgently to each other.

Sonny chuckles, shaking his head. “Nothing good, I imagine.”

After a quick, decisive nod and an odd little handshake, Nina and Rosy break up, pushing off in opposite directions. Nina makes a subtle beeline straight for the three of them, gracefully coming to a gentle stop in front of Betsey with a rather sweet smile.

“Will you skate with me, Betsey?” She asks, earnest but somewhat shy. 

It’s such a simple, innocent question, but it does the impossible: it leaves Betsey Day speechless. She merely blinks down at Nina, seemingly bewildered, her mouth slightly agape, but after a moment and a quick glance at Sonny, her shock turns to a touched gratitude, and her eyes melt with candid affection. 

“Of course, sweetheart. It would be my honour,” she says, a bit of quiet awe seeping through as she holds out her hand with a delicate smile. A smile that blossoms into a full-blown grin as Nina readily accepts her hand.

Stood side by side, Toby and Sonny observe them as they skate off, Nina leading Betsey who’s still a bit unsteady on her blades. But as the other patrons begin to detour around them, throwing them polite but pointed looks, they pick up their feet once more and move along.

“Nina’s quite good, isn’t she? A regular little Torvill,” Toby says, just to break the silence, feeling a slight sense of tension as Sonny continues to stare after his daughter and Betsey. “Does she take lessons?”

Slowly, Sonny shakes his head and with some effort, he turns his attention back to Toby. “No, she--” He clears his throat, his eyes dipping back over for a split second. “I wish she could, but I can’t afford it.”

“Oh…” A tinge of red-faced regret tickles in Toby’s stomach, but Sonny doesn’t seem offended by his indelicacy, so he ignores it. “Well, she’s quite impressive for someone who’s self-taught.”

“Learned everything from her mother, actually,” Sonny explains, his tone wistful and tender. “Dayo competed as a young girl. Nothing fancy, just local contests, but she loved it.” His left thumb rubs at his ring finger. “She was so eager to teach Nina. Got her out on the ice the moment she could stand on her own, and she took to it in an instant. They would go to the rink every weekend they could. It was always their special time together…” 

He trails off, his gaze stuck once again on Nina and Betsey, his expression almost pained. Toby’s not sure what to say. Not sure if he should say anything at all. It’s not exactly his business, but, well, he wants to help. Even if he’s not exactly qualified. Even if he’s not entirely confident in his own advice. Even if he shares and understands Sonny’s doubt and hesitation.

“I don’t mean overstep,” he starts carefully. “But maybe you ought to tell Betsey--”

“I can’t.”

Toby frowns, at both the swiftness of Sonny’s shutdown and the gloom in his voice. “Why not?” He asks, though he knows he probably should let the issue rest. He certainly wouldn’t want to be pestered about something so personal in the middle of an ice rink, but he can’t help it. He hates to see his friend in such unnecessary pain. “Nina clearly adores her.”

“It’s…” His shoulders hunched by a weight Toby can’t imagine, Sonny sighs. “It’s more complicated than that. Please, I’d rather not--”

“Oh, no, of course,” Toby hurries to assure him with a nod. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have--”

“It’s alright.”

They lapse into a rather stiff silence while the regret returns, full-force, to swallow Toby whole, his nails dug into his palms. _When will you learn to just keep your mouth shut like you ought to?_ _To just leave well enough alone?_ He wonders, a refrain echoing up from the past. He tumbles through his mind, looking for something to say, something to haul them out of the dicey conversational doldrums he’s so stupidly driven them into, but his recovery efforts are cut short before they can truly begin. With only the click of her skates as a warning, Rosy comes up from behind them and swipes Sonny’s hand, whisking him away with an impish grin. As he lurches after her, Sonny throws an apologetic smile back at Toby, but Toby knows he’s just as relieved to escape as Toby is.

The two of them glide off together, and once again, Toby is left all on his own. Pulling himself flush against the wall, he stops for a moment to gaze around the rink. Ollie’s buzzing around Nina and Betsey, following after them like a doting puppy, and Charlie is across the rink, her head tilted curiously, half-squatted over her pigeon-toed skates as Ernie tries to teach her the proper way to stop. They both seem to be doing just fine without him, and his only other option for companionship, Adil, has now taken up with Joe, so Toby’s well out of luck. Hardly surprising.

“Alright, mate?”

Toby nearly jumps out of his skin, his skates skittering on the ice, and he whips around to find Dhani slid up beside him, a casual, lazy grin slung on his lips. Once his heart has settled, the father in Toby winces at the sight of him; much like Joe, he’s only wearing a light denim jacket that can’t possibly be warm enough, despite the flannel he has on beneath it. It seems a heartfelt desire to contract hypothermia may run in the family. Or perhaps it’s an obligation they trade off and on.

“Um, yes, I’m fine, thank you,” Toby answers, perfectly polite as he begins hauling himself along again, in the opposite direction.

Dhani simply follows him, moving to his outside shoulder, skating along with ease. “So, Toby Hamilton,” he says, an odd undertone to his voice that Toby can’t quite place. “Let’s talk.”

“About what?”

“Anything.” He nudges Toby with his elbow. “A friend of my brother’s is a friend of mine, so I think it’s time we got to know each other a bit, don’t you?”

Apprehension squirms in Toby’s stomach, and he starts to scoot along a bit faster. It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk to Dhani. It’s just that…Well, he doesn’t really know how to. Dhani is the better part of a decade younger than him and quite a bit more hip, too; it’s not as if they’re going to have a tonne in common. And Dhani is Adil’s brother; Toby would like to get on with him, but the chances are he would only embarrass himself in his eagerness to impress, and Dhani would surely report every inevitable faux pas back to Adil. But then again…Adil cares a great deal for his brother and to merely ignore Dhani or brush his attempts at friendliness off certainly wouldn’t reflect well.

Toby swallows down his reservations and scraps up a serviceable smile. “Alright, that would be…nice. Um, what do you want to know?”

It doesn’t sound anywhere near enthusiastic, but Dhani is unbothered and undeterred. He sweeps a narrow, almost appraising eye over Toby. “Let’s start with the basics. You’re a maths professor at Oxford, right?”

Toby blinks. “Yes, I am.” Dhani nods, apparently satisfied with that answer, but it only leaves Toby more confused. “I’m sorry, how did you--”

“Adil mentioned it.” Dhani shrugs, his hands buried in his jacket pockets; everything about him is so carefully casual, but there’s something about his voice…It almost feels like Toby is being tested. “He talks about you sometimes.”

“He does?” 

It’s a little bit sickening: the fluttering flicker of hope and excitement that leaps to life in Toby’s chest. He’s nearly thirty years old; he ought to be well past the point of preening like a bloody shy schoolboy who’s finally caught the attention of one of the popular students, but it seems some things never change.

“Yeah, ‘course. All good things, though, don’t worry.” 

Toby hadn’t been worried, but the sly smirk creeping onto Dhani’s face and the wink he throws Toby don’t exactly inspire continued confidence. 

“And, um, you’re a student at Oxford, yes?” He asks. There’s a hint of surprise in the look Dhani gives him, and now it’s Toby’s turn to grin. “Adil talks about you, too. Quite a lot.”

“That bastard, always snitching behind my back.” When Dhani rolls his eyes, it’s fond, not even a hint of genuine irritation. “Third-year, history major. Should be graduating in June if I don’t balls it up. Have to actually finish my thesis first, too. Adil’s been on at me ‘bout it for weeks now.” He pauses, chewing at his cheek, an overloaded glaze that Toby recognises all too well falling across his eyes for a flash before he shakes his head and his smile whips back up. “Anyway, enough about me. Tell me, Toby Hamilton,” he says, the full weight of his gaze bearing back down on Toby. “Where do you see yourself in five years?”

It’s an odd, rather heavy question, and Toby hesitates before he answers. “Not much different from where I am now, I suppose,” he ventures. “Perhaps in a new home but--”

“No personal goals for the future, then?” Dhani asks, one less-than-impressed brow raised.

“Um, well, I don’t know, maybe--”

Dhani tsks. “Nevermind. Whereabouts are you from?”

“London, er, Mayfair, sort of. But we--”

“Ever been arrested?”

“Excuse me?”

“How would you categorise yourself politically?”

“Oh, uh--”

“How do you feel about The Beatles? Which football club do you support? And what’s your stance on mint chip?”

Toby’s head spins against the rapid-fire questioning, his mouth open but no real sound finding its way out; he stares at Dhani—wide-eyed and nonplussed, unable to tell if this is a joke or an honest interrogation—and a shaky little chuckle is all he can manage. Before he can attempt to answer even one of those questions, out of the corner of his eye, Toby catches a movement, and when he looks, he sees Adil rushing over, a quiet sort of panic left open on his face.

“Is everything okay?” He asks as Adil slides up to Dhani.

Sparing a brief twitch of a glance towards Toby, Adil nods. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Dhani, can I talk to you?”

Utterly unfazed by the low, assertive note in Adil’s voice, perhaps even amused by it, Dhani lets a slow, cheery smile unfold. “I’m a bit busy at the moment actually.”

“Well, maybe you should stop bothering Toby and--”

“Hang on there, Old Man. I’m not _bothering_ him. Am I?” Dhani turns to Toby for confirmation but doesn’t wait for Toby to even nod before he slings an arm around Toby’s shoulders and turns back to Adil. “See? We’re just having a nice, friendly chat. Getting to know each other a bit better.”

The look Adil gives Dhani then is one of what Toby would call total desperation. It’s a very particular look, like an innocent man stood before his own gallows. Toby recognises it as he himself has given it to his mother at dozens of social events over the years to attempt to dissuade her from thoroughly embarrassing him, but it’s utterly out of place on Adil’s face. What could a man like him possibly have to be embarrassed about?

After a long moment of intense eye contact, Dhani cracks. 

“Ugh, fine.” Rolling his eyes with a rather impressive amount of melodrama, he throws his hands up in surrender. “Have it your way. Heartlessly nip a blossoming friendship in the bud. I gotta go take the piss out of the geriatric American anyway.”

As Dhani clambers off, cupping his hands around his mouth and shouting, “Hey, Yankee Doodle Dandy!” across the rink, heedless to the disgruntled glares he receives from the other skaters, Adil’s annoyance seems to slip away almost immediately. He shakes his head, that same fond exasperation rearing up in the little grin he can’t quite fight back. A grin Toby can’t help but match. 

“I’m sorry,” Adil says after a moment, turning to Toby, sheepish. “Dhani can be a bit much for the uninitiated. He gets ahead of himself and can forget normal social boundaries sometimes.”

“It’s alright.” Toby had been a bit thrown off by Dhani’s questions, but he hadn’t truly minded; he does live with two rather curious children, after all. “He’s quite…interesting.”

Adil laughs, a little hiccup of breath that sends a discerning jolt through Toby’s heart. “Interesting?” He echoes. “Is that your polite, posh way of saying strange?”

“No, no,” Toby insists, a laugh of his own bubbling up. “Just interesting. You know, unique, intriguing.”

“That really doesn’t make it sound much better,” Adil points out, still smiling. 

The silence that comes over them as they begin to meander along together is a bit stiff but not unnatural. It’s comfortable enough, but Toby gets the sense that there’s something Adil wants to say, and well, he rather enjoys talking with Adil whenever he gets the chance; he always has something compelling to share and there’s something so enchanting about his voice, the timbre and softness: it’s like a warm blanket, soothing and wrapped so lovingly around each and every word. Even his most mundane stories effortlessly keep Toby rapt, so as companionable as the silence may be, it feels a bit like a missed opportunity. Just as Toby’s preparing to break it, though, Adil takes a breath and beats him to it.

“So, are you just going to play the wallflower all night?”

Toby knows Adil is teasing him, and he knows he must look ridiculous, clung to the boards while his children glide about without trouble or care, but he doesn’t mind the taunt. Pulling himself along with his chin held high, he explains, “Yes, well, I just have this weird quirk where I prefer to avoid falling on my ass if at all possible.”

That earns him another little laugh, a puff of white smoke curling in the chilled air, and a bit of pride swells in Toby’s chest. 

“Fair enough,” Adil admits. His expression has softened into something terribly earnest, though, when he turns to catch Toby’s gaze, and he gently bumps his shoulder against Toby’s. “But it’s like I tell my students, you can’t learn if you never try.”

“Maybe so,” Toby retorts primly. “But I can’t get hurt and make a fool of myself either.”

Tightening his grip on the wall, Toby clumsily stops himself as Adil stalls beside him. Before Toby can ask him what he’s doing, he holds up an innocent hand between them. It’s rather obvious what he means by the gesture, but Toby stands there, frozen, and stares down at Adil’s palm, his own growing clammy as he hesitates and his stomach ties itself in a nasty knot. He ought to be appreciative; Adil is being a good friend, trying to help him, like always, but itchy anxiety clogs up his chest, making it difficult to breathe, the cold air sharp as a whetted blade in his lungs.

Glancing back up, he finds Adil’s dark eyes watching him, patient and kind.

“Trust me,” he says.

And well, Toby doesn’t have much of a choice now. Unless he wants to come off as an awful friend. After discreetly wiping his palm on his trousers, with a show of partially feigned and partially genuine reluctance, he lifts his hand and slaps it into Adil’s, ignoring the way his heart jumps into his throat when Adil’s fingers immediately curl around his in return. They’re freezing cold, like five ice lollies stuck to Toby’s skin. Toby wishes he had thought to bring a pair of gloves, but all he can do is hold Adil’s hand a bit tighter and hope he has enough warmth to spare. 

Adil raises his other hand, then, and Toby rolls his eyes. But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t keep up his pout, and a won-over smile breaks out on his lips as he pries his fingers from the boards and slips his hand into Adil’s once more. 

Though Adil is ginger about it, slow and steady, Toby still lurches as Adil pulls him away from the wall, his skates nearly sliding out from under him. Adil smoothly adjusts his grip and catches him before he can take them both down, balancing him out and tugging him a bit closer in the process. 

“Easy now,” he teases, and Toby’s cheeks flare with ferocious heat. He feels like such a bumbling twat. Adil is skating _backwards_ , for God’s sake, and he doesn’t seem to be struggling in the least; he makes it look like the easiest thing in the world as he leads Toby around the rink, yet despite facing forward and having support, Toby still can’t even keep his skates straight. 

But as he tentatively begins to copy after Adil and does his best to follow Adil’s gentle instructions, he’s able to stabilise himself a bit, tentatively standing up a bit straighter, and the smile Adil gives him is genuine, supportive and encouraging. There’s not a hint of scorn or ridicule to it. He looks proud almost, and the butterflies that re-erupt in Toby’s stomach batter away the little beasts of shame that had been biting at him.

The further they glide along, though, Toby finds himself barely even moving his feet, barely doing anything at all. He is aware, in some form, of the space around them—the people, the sights, the sounds—and he knows he ought to watch, to steer them safely as Adil cannot see where they’re going, but he’s caught. He can’t take his eyes from the pinpricks of quiet yellow light reflected and swirling in Adil’s: a field of stars to populate the rich brown depths that Toby could all too easily fall into, where he could spend hours drifting about and picking out every shade from amber to sienna. But it’s too much: the care of Adil’s gaze, the fit of his palms against Toby’s, the shallow breath tripping out of Toby’s lungs as gravity condenses the air between them. Unease seizes up in his chest, throwing his pulse into a fluttering frenzy. His thin heart feels pressed up, on the edge of turning over, and he can’t bear it.

He rips his eyes away, shoving them down to the impersonal ice, scuffed and scraped and scarred beneath his feet. It’s quite a similar picture to the current, torn-up riot held behind his ribs. _God_ , what is it? What is it that draws him to Adil yet repulses him when he comes too near? What is it in Adil that seems scratch at the core of him, twisting some wretched, rusted knife in his gut? What is it about Adil’s gaze that makes him feel split open, laid out, painfully opaque, unable to hide, shrunken and magnified? He’s come a long way in the time that they’ve been friends, and he can ignore it—that itch that comes with exposure—most of the time, but it’s still there, aching in flares like a sore tooth. He wants to be near Adil. To stand in his light and enjoy his company. To make him smile and hear him laugh. To be understood by him and be known. But there’s something in the way: a vicious bramble Toby still can’t quite get over, one that grabs at his ankles when he tries to step out and bites down and drags him back into its secluded, guarded safety. He’s afraid, in all truth. Because it’s a liberating thing to be seen, but it’s a _terrifying_ thing to be seen.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he blocks it all out, closes himself down and restarts as best he can. He chucks on a grin, strangles out something like a laugh, and asks the first thing that comes to mind to throw Adil off him. 

“So, you’re an ice skater, too, now? Is there anything you can’t do?” 

It comes out a bit strained, but it’s light enough that Adil doesn’t take notice.

“Believe me, there’s plenty of things I’m quite bad at,” he says, the words coloured in a wry blue hue. His eyes no longer try to hold Toby’s, though. That’s a relief.

“Like what?” Toby presses with another huffed laugh that’s more a scoff, only not so harsh. “Because as far as I can tell, you’re perfect.”

Adil merely blinks at him for a moment, surprised and perhaps a bit embarrassed. Toby’s own cheeks begin to pink, the flavour of regret creeping up on the back of his tongue, but Adil drops his head after a few seconds and shakes it with an air of old sorrow. 

“No, I’m really not. No one is.”

“Okay, fine,” Toby concedes. He ought not dig into the matter; it would be the polite thing to move on, as Adil’s clearly not entirely comfortable, but well, it’s something he ought to know. “You’re awfully close, though. I couldn’t name a single bad thing about you if I tried.”

“Give it time, you’ll find something.”

Adil says it as a joke, a self-deprecating one but a joke all the same. Toby doesn’t laugh, though. The memory of that night in Sonny’s garden grabs him by the throat. He remembers too clearly the worn-flat pain in Adil’s voice, the grey resignation as he had confessed to Toby— _it must have been something wrong with me_ —and he knows Adil truly believes that. Despite Sonny, despite Betsey, despite Joe, despite Nina, despite Dhani, he still thinks there’s some indelible fault chipped into him, some time-bomb waiting to be tripped, negating him from love. And in that moment, scathing, frigid anger burns up inside Toby, a bristling hatred for those men who treated Adil so poorly, who robbed him of his hope, who taught him how to doubt himself and blinded him to the radiance that pours out of every bit of him. But whoever those men were, Toby is glad they’ve gone. Because if they had been stupid enough to let someone like Adil go, to use him and toss him aside, then none of them ever deserved a second of his time, and Toby hopes regret sits forever like a noxious thorn in their throats.

“Maybe I will,” Toby admits cautiously, but he holds his voice as firm and sure as he can for the next words. “But I’ll still like you just the same.”

A smile unfurls on Adil’s lips, but it’s fragile and flighty, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. Not that it’s insincere, only mixed, muddled by some trouble. Toby’s touched the nerve he’d meant to soothe. But as he escapes from Toby’s gaze—what a swift reversal that is—Adil softly squeezes his hands, and Toby answers in kind. They drift on in silence for a moment, letting that thread of conversation drift away, unchased. Toby sneaks in a quick glance at his children to tramp down the anxiety before it can fester, and Adil looks everywhere but at Toby.

When the air feels fresh enough again, he asks, “What were you painting today?” 

Adil looks up, regarding him with suspicious but intrigued confusion. Toby lifts his right hand, Adil’s thumb crossed over his knuckles and streaked with a charred orange.

“Oh…” He seems a bit thrown, staring down at the smear of flaking paint almost as if he isn’t sure how it got there. Then, at last, he says, “It’s kind of difficult to explain actually.”

“Abstract?”

“Not quite. It was…” Even as he hesitates, a light switches on in Adil, shooing away the remains of the pall that Toby had pulled over them and setting him aglow with passion. “Ever since Dhani moved in, we’ve sort of developed this ritual. One Saturday a month, if we can, we break out the acrylics and both have a go at painting some random thing. Sort of like a competition,” he explains. “It was Dhani’s turn to pick the subject today, and because he thinks he’s funny, he chose this ridiculous meme. It was childish and absurd, and Dhani made a mess as usual, but I did win in the end, so that’s all that matters.”

His eyes sparkle, laughing bright with his slightly smug smile, and Toby very nearly sighs with relief. 

“It must be nice,” he says sincerely, admirably light and lacking acidity. “Being so close with your brother.”

“We didn’t always get on. I mean, we didn’t fight, much,” Adil corrects, a fond quirk to his lips as his mind seems to drift back, combing through the memories. “We liked each other well enough, but I was too old and he was too young. We were at different places in our lives and couldn’t understand each other like Padma and I did. He always felt a bit lonely and left out…” 

He trails off, morose, twisted with should-be-expired guilt for a moment before he takes a breath and goes on. “Once he got into uni, though, I was already living in Oxford, and I knew I had to look out for him, so we started meeting up and going on runs together, and when he came--uh, when he came to stay with me, we found we had a lot more in common than we thought.” His voice glitters with some private amusement, but at Toby’s questioning look, he merely shrugs. “Dhani drives me crazy sometimes, but at the end of the day, he’s my little brother, and I wouldn’t change a thing about him.” 

His eyes sneak across the rink, but after only a second, his smile snaps, and he shyly ducks his head once more. When Toby turns, picking up Adil’s broken gaze, Dhani is staring straight back at him, not even trying to disguise it, stock-still on the ice and wearing a rather peculiar expression. Toby’s skin crawls and shivers under Dhani’s blatant inspection; he hastily turns back to Adil where a new, sly smile is waiting for him.

“Don’t look now,” Adil says. “But you’re ice-skating.”

“What?”

Toby glances down, and sure enough, his feet are moving, skating along properly and thoughtlessly, no longer relying on Adil to keep him upright, their clasped hands hung loose between them. Of course, no sooner does he feel an itch of pride then the pick of his skate catches on a gouge in the ice and he loses his balance entirely, yanking back on Adil’s hands as he flails forward. Adil, the bastard, only laughs as they stumble together and crash into the wall, jumbled against each other. But well, it is a rather infectious laugh, so it’s not long before Toby is joining in, his embarrassment temporarily held at bay by the giddy delight that shines in Adil’s eyes.

Though, as they stand there, pressed up together, the delight begins to dim, the giggles taper off, and something far more serious alights on Adil’s face. Every trace of mirth shrivels, and Toby’s heart stomps in his chest, a bloody fist bruising itself against the chalky bars of its cage. His stomach aches like something is trying to claw its way out. He feels sick all over again.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, pushing back and hurriedly dropping Adil’s hands, heat erupting in his cheeks like twin supernova suns bubbling beneath his skin.

Adil tugs on his jacket, straightening it back out, but whatever his reply would have been it’s cut off by a little, eager voice.

“Daddy! Daddy, look what I can do!”

As Toby turns, he hears a sharp gasp. 

Then, the worst sound in the world. 

Ollie’s cries cut, red and raw, through the merry air, and Toby’s heart stops. The sight of his son, sobbing and sprawled on the ice, rips the air out of his lungs, slices the brutal chill back into his body, down to the bone. He feels the whole world grind to a halt around him, but he can’t freeze up now. 

Breakneck terror and soiling guilt tear at him as he clambers towards Ollie. His son is hurt, and it’s all his fault. He should have known better, he should have been watching, he should have stayed with him. What was he thinking, letting Ollie roam around on his own? What sort of negligent father just leaves their child alone like that?

Adil reaches Ollie first. 

Toby hadn’t even seen him move, but there he is: already knelt down and helping Ollie up with such care, his smile pained, his sleeve pulled over his hand as he talks soft and brushes the ice and tears away. And there Ollie is: his hand cupped tender around his elbow as he whimpers, clinging to Adil’s jacket, burying his wobbling, tear-sticky face against his shoulder. 

It stops Toby in his tracks.

The wave of emotion that crashes down on him nearly takes his feet out from under him.

 _Trust me_ , Adil had said earlier, and God help him, Toby _does_. Because it’s not jealousy or fear or any other muddled mess. It’s relief—drop-to-his-knees, last-breath-before-surrender, weight-of-the-world-halved relief—that pours into his chest and settles around his heart. Relief that Adil is there. Relief that Adil has his son held safe. Relief that Adil had raced towards Ollie, ready to comfort him, without a second thought. He trusts Adil, instinctive and gut-true, and the realisation leaves Toby shivering and sweating, pierced by panic, pacified with peace, and something altogether grander laying nameless beneath.

Adil’s eyes flick over as Toby tenuously scrambles across the remaining distance and drops down beside them. With a look close to guilt, sudden reticence in the turned-down corners of his lips, he carefully pulls away from Ollie and nudges him towards Toby instead. Toby only half-hears Adil’s sheepish apology as he stands and steps back, and immediately, he wants to give it back, to tell him it’s unnecessary, he’s done nothing wrong, but Ollie falls into his arms, and all Toby can see is the single fat tear bumbling down his pout-puffed cheek.

“Oh, Ollie Pop…” His heart rent, he reaches up and catches the tear with the pad of his thumb, wiping it away as he feels his own prickle in his eyes. “Are you alright? Where does it hurt?”

His little face all twisted up, wet misery keen in his eyes, Ollie lifts his left elbow, jutting it meaningfully towards Toby. Gentle as he can, channelling every last ounce of his love and affection, Toby obediently leans in and presses a healing kiss to the grievous injury. 

“Better?”

Ollie pauses, sniffles once, then nods. “Better.” His voice is small, still worn rough from his sobs, but a hint of his gap-toothed smile slips back out as he falls against Toby again, his arms thrown around Toby’s neck. “Thanks, Daddy.”

The warmth rushes back to Toby in an instant, his guilt soothed over by fierce love, and he wraps his son up tight, rubbing a hand up and down his back. “Always, Ollie Pop.”

A second later, the mighty clatter that had been steadily growing louder, working its way towards them from across the rink, abruptly cuts out as Charlie hurls herself into them and nearly ploughs them down like a pair of skittles. Looking rather mature with her furrowed brow and severe frown, she inspects Ollie for a beat, his cheeks squished between her mittens, then she squeezes him to her, rocking him back and forth and patting his back. As if she were ten years older than him instead of ten minutes. Toby’s heart clenches, filled with mushy pride and bursting adoration, and the smile that rises on his lips is so soft it almost hurts to hold it. He glances up at Adil, in awe of this little wonder, but the second Toby’s eyes find him, Adil turns away. He’s just being polite, trying not to intrude, surely, but it hits Toby like a slap in the face; he feels…stupid, and some hope he hadn’t even known was there wilts, a brown brittle rot in his chest.

But he shakes off the useless disappointment, and very gingerly, he gets back to his feet, holding out a hand for Ollie. He has recovered well enough, but Toby would rather not risk, and couldn’t bear, any further spills. Thankfully, Ollie seems to agree, and once he’s wiped away his snot, he tucks his hand into Toby’s and toddles along with him.

“You coming, too, Peanut?” Toby calls over his shoulder.

Charlie stops to kick the ice where Ollie fell, sticking her tongue out at it for good measure before she hurries after them, scooping up Ollie’s other hand. As they troop towards the exit, the other parents flock over, matching concern and contrition writ across all of their faces. Toby tries to wave them off, assure them everything’s alright and send them back to their festivities to make the most of their remaining time, but the mood has been decidedly shattered. Not even the children put up a word of fight when Betsey suggests they all hang up their skates for the night.

“I saw a stand up front that had hot chocolate,” Sonny offers as they all plop back down on the bleachers to take off their skates. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I could go for a cup to put some warmth back in these old bones.”

Fumbling one-handed at his laces, Toby checks his watch. It seems a bit late for all that chocolate and sugar, but beside him, the twins perk up, wide- and eager-eyed, and well, after that little fiasco, who is he to deny them a bit of cosy comfort? It is the start of their holiday, after all, and if they’re kept up tonight, they can always sleep on the drive up to Theresa’s tomorrow morning. His agreement is followed up by a chorus of the same from Betsey, Joe, and Dhani, and the children begin tearing at their laces in earnest, all but kicking their skates off in their haste to get back into their trainers.

The moment their laces are tied up once more—without any help this time—the twins chuck their skates at Toby with grateful grins and run off with Betsey and the other children, leaving Toby to tsk and trudge back to the counter all on his own. He’s quite exhausted but mostly in a good way, for now. It’s been a rather long day and a rather eventful night in its own way, and it’s not near to over. He still has a fair bit of packing to do when they get home, and then it’s up bright and early to hit the motorway and make the four-hour trek up to Eslingley in time for lunch. As he clunks the skates down in front of the bored-looking teen working the counter, he can already feel the weight of the upcoming fortnight clinging to his skin, bedding down, grey and bloated, in the hollows beneath his eyes, 

His accounts settled, Toby turns to make his way after the others and claim a warm cuppa that he really could use, but he only takes a few steps before he stalls. The sound of Adil’s voice drifts up to him from behind, irritated but lightly and futilely so.

“Don’t start,” he says. “You’re already on thin ice as it is. Razor-thin.”

“Oh please, Casanova, like I’m gonna let you get off that easy,” Dhani answers, his smirk loudly audible. Toby smoothly ducks behind the nearest bedazzled, potted pine tree. Shame tickles at the back of his neck, but his curiosity overrides it. “What the Hell was all that?”

There’s a pause. 

“Nothing.”

“ _Nothing_?” Dhani sputters, impressively incredulous. Toby can practically hear him gesturing. “Come on, _that_ was not nothing! Are you really going to act like I didn’t see what happened out there with my own two functioning eyes? I’m telling you, Adil, bet my life on it, he totally fan--”

“Dhani, please. Just…Don’t, okay? It’s hard enough as it is.” 

It comes out so small and sombre, so utterly weary and defeated, that Toby hardly catches it, but he does, and it sticks in his throat like a brutal burr. Adil’s not meant to sound like that; he ought not have to sound like that.

“You really don’t see it, do you?” Dhani asks, far gentler than Toby’s heard him speak all night.

“No, because there’s nothing to see, and even if there was, it--”

Toby presses back into the shadows as they draw even with him, but he runs straight into a trash bin, rattling it and its dreadfully noisy contents. Once he’s stabilised it with a muttered curse, he glances up, and of course, Dhani is watching him with curious glee, far too amused. Adil, though, flutters away from Toby’s gaze, his shoulders hunched as he stares down at his shoes, an odd reflection of the embarrassment that has leapt up on Toby, red-hot claws dug into his cheeks.

“Oh, good, uh, I was just--Got a bit turned around, wasn’t sure where the others got off to,” he explains, feeble and unconvincing to his own burning ears. Dhani’s smirk stretches as he flaps his elbow into Adil’s arm, and another bucket of gooey heat slides over Toby’s skin. He hardly needs the hot chocolate to warm him up now, but he hastens to add, “Well, better get up there before they order without us.”

He trails behind, playing dumb, as Dhani and Adil lead the way through the maze of stalls. They’re whispering to each other in fierce and fast Hindi, and Toby’s stomach wrings itself over with anxiety. They’re not talking about him—it’s unbelievably narcissistic to even think that they would be—but he can’t help but squirm and wonder what they’re discussing so intently.

Charlie and Ollie are already on their tiptoes, their grabby little hands thrust up to snatch their drinks—piled high with whipped cream and chocolate drizzle and crushed up little bits of peppermint—when Toby steps up to the counter. He shakes his head, his own teeth already feeling fuzzy at the mere thought of all that sugar, but he only laughs as Charlie sticks her face straight into the whipped cream and comes out with a perfect dollop on her nose. He’s a bit surprised when they choose to stick by him, waiting for him to get his (plain, boring old) hot chocolate instead of trampling off to sit with their friends, but he’s certainly not going to look that gift horse in the mouth. 

Wrapping his chilled fingers around the thin paper cup, he delicately herds them over to the closest open table, adjacent to the rabble of Sonny, Betsey, and Joe’s table. Much to Charlie’s annoyance, Ollie deposits his drink on the table and hastily crawls into Toby’s lap the moment he’s sat down. But she gives up her pout soon enough, happily smacking and licking her lips as she takes tempered sips. Toby’s softly lecturing her about manners, getting nowhere, when Dhani drops into the seat across from him with the grace and subtlety of a meteor crashing to Earth. 

Behind him, Adil rolls his eyes and sets a hand atop the remaining empty chair. “Do you mind?”

“Oh, no, of course.” Toby waves his hand out as best he can with a cup of lidless, molten-hot liquid in it. “Please.”

A rather stilted silence, jarring in comparison to the lively discussion at the next table over, falls over them almost immediately. The twins are too busy slurping up their sugary sludge to do much talking; Adil is staring, steadfast, at his drink, methodically stirring in the whipped cream as if it were a bomb that needed disarming; Dhani is throwing Adil a series of pointed looks that Adil pointedly ignores; and Toby is left to simply glance around between the four of them, growing itchy until he cracks.

“So, Dhani,” he starts, not exactly sure where he’s going. “Uh, you said you’re writing your thesis, right? What about?”

Dhani slams his drink down on the table, swiping away his foamy moustache with the back of his hand as his eyes light up. “Well, it’s a bit complicated, lots of moving pieces, ya know? That’s the way of history. But mostly, I’m looking at the development of the six schools of philosophy in Ancient India—Sankhya, Yoga, Nyaya, Vaisheshika, Mimamsa, and Vedanta.” His hands are already flying all over the place, ticking each name off on his fingers as he goes. “I’m starting all the way back with the Vedas and the subsequent elevation of the Brahman class as they became vital components of certain religious rituals and therefore were entrusted with practically all of Indian scholarship for years and years, and then I’m investigating how that power influenced each of the philosophies in turn, and--”

As Dhani goes on, his words tumbling out almost faster than his tongue can form them, Adil catches Toby’s eyes and gives him a you’re-in-for-it smile, half-hidden behind the rim of his cup. Toby smiles back, and resting his chin atop Ollie’s head, he settles in for a long story.

\---

Nearly an hour later, Adil, Dhani, Toby, and the twins are the only ones who remain. Sonny, Betsey, and Joe had all carted their little ones off some time ago, peeling away in pieces with various excuses and pleasant goodbyes. Ollie is practically asleep, curled up against Toby’s chest, his hot chocolate long gone, and Charlie’s not much better, her head pillowed atop her arms on the table as she blinks, slow and futile. Even Dhani—who’s kept up a near-constant, fascinating stream of chatter in-between minimal prompting from Toby—seems to be starting to flag.

“God,” he groans, stretching his arms up above his head, then twisting his back this way and that. “I need to get this bloody binder off. Feels like it’s tryin’ to kill me.” 

He freezes up, and his eyes flit over to Toby for a beat, but his attention is swiftly drawn away. 

“How long have you had it on?” Adil asks, sitting up straighter and shifting seamlessly into big-brother mode.

“I don’t know.” Picking at his napkin, Dhani shrugs, carefully. “Since…Nine, maybe?”

“ _Dhani_.”

“What? My surgery’s in two weeks, won’t hardly matter after that!”

“Surgery?” Toby echoes with a tentative frown, cutting off Adil’s exasperated reply. “Is everything alright?”

A sudden shyness swoops over Dhani, his previous ease now drawn tense. “Yeah, it’s just top surgery,” he says, casual as can be, but he glares across the table at Toby, eyeing every tick of his reaction. Adil’s eyes burn into him, too, but Toby merely tilts his head, not quite understanding, so Dhani gestures vaguely towards his chest. “Finally gonna get rid of these, ya know.”

It takes a moment, but eventually, it clicks. 

“Oh! Oh, I--” Toby clears his throat, a surge of panic welling up as his words fail. He can only pray he’s not coming off as some intolerant bigot. How does he keep getting caught off-guard like this? “I’m sorry, I--I didn’t know, I mean, I didn’t realise…”

A peak of a smile starts to rise back up on Dhani’s lips, a little glitter of mirth back in his eyes. “Yeah, you’re not really meant to, mate.”

“Right.” Toby allows himself a little chuckle at his own expense before he puts on the most earnest smile he has. “Well, um, congratulations. I’m sure it will be a welcome relief. And a speedy recovery, hopefully,” he adds, raising his long-empty cup in toast. 

Across the table, Dhani does the same.

“Daddy?” Toby glances down at the little hand now gripped in his sleeve, tugging insistently. Charlie stares, bleary-eyed, back up at him. “I’m sleepy. I wanna go home now.” 

Her tone is perfectly matter-of-fact, brooking no argument. Not that Toby would have dared disagree anyhow.

“Okay, Peanut,” he says, patting her twice on the head. Somewhat reluctant—he has immensely enjoyed their conversation thus far—he turns to give his apologies to Dhani and Adil, but Dhani’s already popped up, collecting his trash and tossing it in the nearby bin, and Adil isn’t far behind. Well, then. That’s settled.

Rubbing a hand on his back, Toby whispers to Ollie, trying to rouse him, but Ollie—mostly pretending to be asleep—only koala-hugs himself tighter around Toby, tucking his face in against his neck and grumbling faintly. And Toby, as usual, pushes right over. Through a rather impressive feat of strength and balance, he somehow manages to lever himself to his feet, the additional three stone clung to him notwithstanding, but even as he does so, he immediately encounters another problem: Charlie won’t get up. 

She has decided to take her brother’s cue, and when Toby attempts to prompt her, she holds up her arms and meets him with wide, puppy dog eyes. 

“Carry me.”

“Charlie, darling,” he says, his heart soft and truly regretful. “I can’t carry you both.” 

She remains unmoved, literally and figuratively.

“Charlie, please--”

She shakes her head, vehement, and crosses her arms over her chest. A look that says _I can stay here all night, try me, old man_ , even as her eyelids begin to droop once more. After nearly a minute of stand-off, Toby has no choice but to capitulate, and he turns, sheepish and red-cheeked, to Adil. 

“I’m so sorry, could you, um, I mean, would you mind…” The request sticks on his tongue, too weighty to be spoken, but it’s obvious enough. 

Adil hesitates but only for a second. Digging into his pocket, he hands his keys to Dhani and sends him off to start the car before he steps over to Charlie. And even though he’s the one who asked for Adil’s help, Toby’s heart still goes a bit funny—a flash of arrhythmia, a complicated, good-bad emotion clogging up all the ventricles and veins—as Charlie readily climbs into Adil’s arms, her fingers fisted in his jacket and her head pillowed on his shoulder without a second thought, as if she’s done it her whole life. But Toby dutifully ignores his lingering misgivings and starts off, leading Adil and trying to remember where exactly he’d parked the car.

He has to adjust his grip on Ollie several times as they trek down the pavement, side by side on the silent streets, plump snowflakes beginning to see-saw down through the navy air. The twins are getting too big, too old to be carried still, but neither Toby nor they are ready to admit that, so he’ll bear the sore arms and possible lumbar damage without complaint for a while longer. Though, he can’t deny it is a tremendous relief when they finally stumble upon the car, and he can gingerly tuck Ollie into the backseat as, on the other side, Adil does the same for Charlie. They only just manage to get the twins’ buckled in before they collapse inwards, snuggling up to each other, their heads leant together as they hurry to drift off.

The sight lodges in Toby’s chest, a warm-and-fuzzy bullet of unbearable affection, too much to hold on his own. This time, when he looks across at Adil to share it, he doesn’t turn away. He meets Toby’s eye, and he smiles, small but oh so bright, briefly blinding and beautiful in the dim night before he retreats, closing the door with a muted _click_. Stung by something low, Toby leans in and drops a quick kiss to Charlie and Ollie’s foreheads, pausing a second to remember this moment before he too closes his door.

He meets Adil back on the pavement, drenched in a puddle of golden light from the lonely streetlamp that watches, impassive and buzzing, over them. There are snowflakes collecting in Adil’s hair, white and melting in the tangle of black. Toby’s fingers itch to brush them away. 

“Thank you, by the way,” Adil says, his hands shoved back in his pockets, his shoulders hunched in against the cold.

Toby, resisting the urge to step closer and guard him from the bullying breeze, frowns and shakes his head. “For what?”

“For letting Dhani talk.” When Toby’s frown only deepens with further confusion, Adil explains, “He’s really passionate about his studies, but most people get bored and don’t care to hear him out. He’s always been told by teachers and peers that he’s too talkative, and I know it seems silly, but it means a lot that you listened.”

“Of course,” Toby says, a punch of sympathy, far too close to home, landed in his stomach. “He’s an exceptionally intelligent young man. Remarkably insightful. He’s got a very bright future ahead of him, I’m certain.”

Adil’s smile is laced with pride and gratitude, but as silence descends on them once more, the moment paws against Toby, dragging and slow, time stuck on the verge of something. It’s the end of the term; it’ll be two weeks or more before he sees Adil or the others again; he ought to say something more. Honesty has never been his best policy—he was raised in a home where the truth was a four-letter word, something that was meant to be swept beneath a fine Persian rug—but he may as well give it a go now, when he can simply run away afterwards. May as well thrust out the words that are kicking at his teeth and hope they don’t fracture this fragile air. 

“Um, I suppose I ought to thank you, too,” he says, past the leaden lump forming in his throat.

Glancing over at the car, at Charlie and Ollie still cuddled up in the backseat, Adil shrugs. “It was no problem, really.”

“No, I mean--Well, yes, thank you for this, but…” The lump creeps higher in Toby’s throat, seeping doubt as Adil regards him, but he presses on. “For everything else, too. You’ve done so much for me, for the twins, and I’m so very grateful. I could never even begin to repay you.”

“I’m just doing my job, Toby.”

It’s far too bashful, far too dismissive, and Toby simply can’t abide that. 

“No, no, it’s--It’s far more than that. It’s--” He doesn’t have the words for it. How can he possibly explain to Adil all he’s done when Toby himself can’t yet understand the entire extent of it? Nothing he says will be enough, but he has to try, even if it doesn’t come easy, even if it’s uncomfortable. Because Adil deserves to hear it. 

“You are a truly incredible man,” he says, every ounce of sincerity he has pressed into the words. “Probably the best man that I’ve ever known. I mean, you’ve…It’s only been a few months that I’ve known you, and you’ve already completely changed my life. I always felt like I was all on my own before, and now, you’ve been so kind to me and brought me into this wonderful little world with you and Sonny and Betsey and Joe. And I…I can’t remember when I’ve ever been as happy as I am now.”

“Toby…”

“I mean it. The twins, too. They adore you, and all their new friends. I’ve never seen Charlie so open and outgoing with people outside of the family. She’s coming out of her shell more and more every day, and I’m just…” Biting his lip, Toby takes a shaky breath and reaches out, hooking his fingers around Adil’s. “I’m really, _really_ glad that I met you, Adil.”

It comes out as a whisper, too true to risk being overheard by the empty street beyond them, but with the words out, a sense of relief overwhelms Toby. Like some burden he hadn’t been aware he was carrying has at last been lifted from his weary shoulders. Adil, though, is silent. His eyes, so bright, so dark, search Toby, looking for something, asking for something. Toby doesn’t know the question, but he knows the answer. He nods, just barely, almost imperceptible, but it’s enough.

Adil’s lips are soft as he kisses Toby.

After hours spent out in the cold and the wind, Toby would have expected them to be chapped. But they’re not. They’re soft and gentle and warm, just like Adil, and Toby’s whole world shatters so easily around him. 

His heart stops in his chest; his breath dies in his lungs; his skin burns beneath Adil’s palm, cupped against his jaw.

His eyes flutter shut; his fingers curl tighter around Adil’s; his body lists forward, ever so slightly.

He feels sick; he feels faint; he feels trapped frozen exploding scared ashamed light confused drowning good bad awful terrified alive.

He feels _too much_.

It’s over in an instant. A few seconds at most. 

Adil pulls back, slow, lingering. He stares up at Toby, so close, dazed almost, but after a moment, he lets out a breath, stumbling and patchy as his eyes go wide.

“I’m sorry, I--” 

Toby’s hand falls limp and frigid at his side as Adil steps away, horrified. All of the light in his eyes has been eaten up; it’s just fear now: a pure, gut-deep fear that tears chunks out of Toby. 

“I’m so sorry,” Adil whispers again, racked and ruined. He takes another step back, shaking his head. Then, he turns and walks away. Just like that. His head hung low, his hasty steps echoing in time with Toby’s racing heart. 

He feels Adil’s name rising up in his throat—a tether to bring him back, an apology to keep him close, a lifeline to cling to against the churning, hungry maw, the cloudy ocean that has opened inside Toby—but the syllables stick on his tongue, trip over his teeth, and by the time it falls from his lips, more a breath than a name, Adil is too far gone to hear it. 

Toby watches, rooted to the spot, until Adil ducks onto a side-street and disappears. Watches until his body comes back online, until his knees aren’t jelly, until he can move without collapsing. He falls, heavy, numb, into the driver’s seat. And he sits there. He grips his keys in his hand, the jagged edges biting at the tender flesh of his palm. He fumbles through them, looking for the one he needs. He finds it and shoves it in the ignition, but he doesn’t turn it. He can’t. 

His vision is spotted, clouded, fogging up. He reaches up and slides his glasses off. His hands shake as he pulls his sleeve up over his palm; they tremble as he meticulously polishes away the droplets of water that have collected on the lenses; they shudder as he closes his eyes and tries to remember how to breathe. His whole body is set alight, jittery, like electricity strung through every vein, pushing his heart too fast, seizing painfully, fingers of panic squeezing tighter and tighter with every beat. The world is closing in around him, fuzzy at the edges, the air too thin, too thick, and he lets his forehead fall against the steering wheel. Something is building up in his throat; he’s not sure if it’s a laugh or a scream or his heart, rising up like a bloated red balloon, gorged on the putrid gases of its own decay, ready to pop and finally kill him. He drops his glasses, fists his hands in his hair, and tugs, but the pain doesn’t dampen the--

A sniffle.

Toby snaps up, his eyes flying to the backseat, to his children.

They’re still asleep, perfectly peaceful, their hands wrapped together between them.

Greasy shame squirms in his stomach, and he has to look away. He can’t do this. Not right now. Not with them. He has to hold himself together. He has to get them home. He has to be a father first. The rest can come later.

He takes a breath.

He puts his glasses back on.

He starts the car; the headlights blink on, cutting through the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE FINALLY MADE IT, FOLKS!!! 🥳🍾🎉
> 
> Well, sort of...Much still to come!
> 
> I originally had a very different set-up in mind for this chapter, and I have to give another shoutout to AstriferousSprite for continuing to be amazing, hitting me with some excellent inspiration, and letting me totally poach the ice-skating concept and run wild. Hope I did it justice!
> 
> (Also, I did some research and couldn't find any sort of ~winter festival~ like this one that's actually held in Oxford, but let's suspend our belief in reality for a few moments and pretend this is accurate...)
> 
> Up next: Time to go home for the holidays, churn through some emotions, and maybe come to terms...


End file.
